A small touch of insomnia, in small crisis with word

I hang on a chain of sorrow; I’m not a born prodigy, nor am I a militant of divinity

I only go to know my dormant gift which has grown so rapidly

It’s not that I maintain ignorant thoughts to turn down this ability

I adopt it as my own child, a strong son or a blissful girl

I bring up my rhythm with such soothing words

I tutor this originality with all my passion that I own

My continual inspirations inhalation is on in this blank contract

It’s my vision; it’s my wish to suit our world with just a small amount of tranquility

To hold submission to my rows of vocabulary, bound to such blind minds of confusion

Minds that cannot follow a straightforward function of worn out writing

Causing such plain romantics to dull this asylum

To spoil such solid walls and grounds of my world

And still as I walk in twilight lulling my spirit calm

I find a hint of suspicion, so contagiously sick, raiding what I hold so tightly to my torso

Such rich and such poor, cynically causing such ridiculous community norms

Why I ask is it our mission to acquaint our thoughts with standards classification

I abhor this obstruction of association

How our world of simplistic glory has had such conflicting adaptation

Why try to modify this luminous world, to adjust what is know as truth in all forms

A morph, a skip that has withdrawn causing a mind numbing Attraction

I ask for only what truly is part of my sanctuary

My soothing harmony and comforting forty winks

I subsist within air of instructors of rhythm

And Crimson blood of a loyal lyricist runs undying through this body to livings last hour