Sometimes it is hard for my mind to adjust to reality.
The world is a ghetto or a jungle
Never shuts up
Voices and engines
Screams
People talk and talk
But the voices are not coming from inside them
Like they have them in their mouth and they just wanna spit them to you
Like they can't keep them anymore
And it's just an annoying background
In which you cannot concentrate
A world without focus
and deeper meaning.
Shadows behind glass.
They can't even see me
Or even themselves.
They can't see
I am overloaded
With a peaceful rage
Or is it a wrathful peace
I cannot know for sure.
All I know is
I have to write in order to survive
To keep my thoughts at bay
Or I will suffocate.
Better the blank pages than me
Ice cold blood is my ink
Running non stop.
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