Every man dies. Not every man really lives.
- William Wallace
Actions are usually irratational intentions,
A masked distinction fused between reactions and decisions,
A path of friction hidden and we don't fathom its persistence,
But the randomness of living leaves a cramp in its commitments,
See He managed what is given, but longed for what is not,
And frantically envisioned, but mourned for what He got,
So He formed another plot in hopes of beating the odds,
But frequent defeats increased with every decrease in nods,
Seeking a dream that only He believed was hard,
A sequence of falls that He only redeemed through God,
Unseemingly seen as flawed through the eyes of those,
Who never confide or had to live by why's or hope,
He tried to cope, but life is harsh with its blatant views,
The rage engraved was due when His impatience grew,
His days were slaved for you, and
Pain being tamed was through,
And hate related phases would spew just CRAVING to,
Be considered apart of anything, but nameless groups,
Faceless troop just awaiting to escape the news,
But those breaking the ways are few,
And far between,
And He starts to see the margin in His farthest dreams,
They flow apart in streams, and we parade in the sickness,
Where tears and happiness become so vague in the difference,
Shameless admitting to our faults, but we seek eternity,
While we misread His trangressions and fights. . .internally,
Now currently, it's our choice to explore our kind,
That weeps for War, but ignore the gripping force of minds,
The specific source our lives use as a vision to die with,
That caused His misses and blindness,
Timed life living as lifeless,
Ticking, restricted, sliced, ripped,
. . . . we're thinking it's over,
With evey dead brain cell reminscent of soldiers,
See He's the victim in order, and we're drenched in the odor,
Witness a business where emotions are fenced in its borders,
Vision drifts in the water, never a brief or stressed glare,
While he dies, and never gets to breathe the fresh air.
-Nique.
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