Chapter 1

Here I am, standing in the desert underneath the sun

I thought one day i'll no longer have anything to write from

I have written quite alot but feel like I haven't written enough

Could it be because i hide myself behind these metaphors?

Some times I barely know when my pen would start

Does it have to come from my mind for it to be art ?

Do I have to stick to the script to get the reward of playing my part?

Would it feel more believable if I knew how to handle a cigar ?

The truth is I am fighting two sides of the same coin

I am trying to expose them to understand the result

To understand why one second I want to be surrounded with love

And suddenly I push everyone away then I question my worth

I think i still despise myself to a certain degree

Trying to understand my hommie-side in order to fit it

Mr, Betrayal Burns Slowly , and it is just his third degree

It's time to hang my towel to dry, soaked up too much bloody ink

A journey of repentance and pardon

Where I show everything I have atoned and paid, no ad ons

Where my struggles, doubt, hurt and pain sit at an open banquet

Rather this than anxiety kissing me goodbye in my casket.