He writes what he thinks, he thinks what he knows, he knows what he understands, he understands what he feels.
Sleep tight, woke up, what's for breakfast?
Think deep, we'll spit, breeds torment to accept,
Roar snore, hear scream was purely realistic,
The irony, the voice if only they'd listen, meanwhile they cease to speak.
Bones are shaking, sleepless nights, taste of blood and tears, what is breakfast?
Think wise, dead end, we'll feast the desolation that we feel,
Still hungry? The flavor of blossom, digested and devoured, too salty to ignore,
The irony, curing curiosity, the virtue of what yearn, sad reactions everywhere, they think no more.
So sweet, so lovely, the art and the scenery,
The masterpiece of its heritage, their triumph, their society The comfort, the jazz company, oh melody, they cannot hear the whisper of our battlefield,
So fragile? so feeble? We struggle, and bravery, wield our sword, sharp our words,
Then blade shall cut too deep, catch the light, dont blink, They'll see needles when they sleep.
© 2019 Adelram Cenk