POWERFUL

Which way will they come from? My mind has become silent as my poetry, like a lover's sweet kiss, lingers as it slowly dances on the tastebuds of my tongue. They keep calling me back to these people and things from my past.do they not know that I no longer live there and those memories I no longer want to last, so I cast them away, saying f*ck what you think f*ck what words like a disease you have to say.

I am just a wandering man, a gypsy soul who they are trying to keep silent because they know that I have a story that, like their reign, needs to be told. I am the messenger, the savior. Which I call my own.

I look out my window. They are like flies on shit. They are god damn everywhere like paranoid villagers with their torches and pitchforks in hand, screaming he knows who we are. He's a monster, not like us, a buyable man.

I keep hearing them out my window saying he is the disease that there is no cure for. We need to quiet him before his voice gets so loud that are brainwashing will no longer be heard by the poor bastards that we are trying to control, but this one, how in the hell did we allow him to get so strong he is the one who we should never have allowed to get too intense.