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When The Jungle Is Hungry

Writing’s what I do.
I’m used to filling up a room,
With a silly rhythm you’d,
Normally wouldn’t hear often.
Most say I’m off in a mind painting panoramic vibes,
On a stage where real events are plotted.
Hoping you would smile as I admit my nonsense.
I’m not!
Is just my way to process,
All the wrongs I’ve committed…

My vision of who I am is what I want those I love to envision.
Particularly myself,
Now that I’ve found a reason to keep living.
For so long,
I’ve yearned to rip and dissimilate my image,
From a world that seems stressed whenever I’m in it,
Till I kept begging for a tux It’d have to start stitching!
Along my skin as my eternal imprisonment…
Came too far to see myself fall by cycling sentiments of sorrow and ignorance…

I pick up a pen today,
Same way I did when I chose to write instead of digging a grave.
A grave dug by caging my real self inside of a cave,
Most never escape after losing their wheels,
As I was blessed to land in the hands of grace.
My reason to pour out a bottle of tears into the deepest lake,
On an Earth we all water when we cry and laugh at the end of our day…
Reflecting all of what we are within each others’ eyes while we kneel and pray,
To paint a better life…

Partake in rendezvous and invite your skeletons over for a while.
They’re not there to hurt you like those devoured in rotting flesh and a suicidal lifestyle.
They’re there to remind you of how you’d end up!
If you let too many demons pile on your conscious…
Anchors you allow yourself to drown with.
Doing nothing new after being swayed to break another promise…

Don’t let it be you who’s losing out on knowing what a good time is,
Just because you couldn’t stop tuning into old songs each moment you were lost in,
This concrete jungle dying to eat us alive…

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