Replied to...
Marek- Mark of Man
Formula - One Body: Two Reflections
Most will never understand the music of an indian
Native because of social conformity, submission of opinion
Art is the drying pastel needed to chalk up the dead bodies
To cough up the godly words consumed by prophecy
He paints the vivid memories of a misplaced yesterday
And the quantity of illustrated thoughts is a much better way
To find God, Jesus was on the cross solemnly dying
Beyond the fog, now Jesus is on the canvas drying
Surviving the empty existence this young man is plagued with
Selling his priceless ideas for the future for purpose is aimless
His fag stays lit, he uses it to end the hell where he resides
The demise he encountered a long time before it swells inside
Consuming that talent, his mother fed him the ambition
Father christened him a heavy burden of a family's malnutrition
Sage Marcus, hardly a label for a failure, 20 years
Past he started this cycle of insolence with many fears
But any deer sees the headlights of Apollo coming
And as it's peers get death frights, it doesn't follow running
Futile existence, spending time in an placent dream
Where expression of the soul is a marketable scheme
Weary of success, it seems to have escaped him
His question of sexuality is the sodomy that raped him
Moved out at 16, and disconnected relationships of all sort
While the clock's ticks seemed smiles that always fall short
Lives off every story sold in frame of embony or gold
A plastic encasing unrefundable memory still untold
Most will never understand the music of an indian
Native because of social conformity, submission of opinion
Art is the drying pastel needed to chalk up the dead bodies
To cough up the godly words consumed by prophecy
The ashes of his pheonix mingle among the cigars
Far from the burning passion expanding his disregard
A few months past rent's due, he has to locate to another venue
Hoping his sanity is hanging securely on it's noose
The slums are just the reflection of a lost generation
Crackheads, gangbangers interacting in a weathered basement
Ever embracing the solitary contrary to his old friends
Cold winds of an autumn he spends without a soul's breath
Eats away at the sparse amounts of chicken the Salvation will give him
And his very prescence of individuality scares off children
Dropped the paint brush to illustrate a vision he can touch
Graffiti laminated walls beckon his name to fill in the cuts
Disgust, years of education only magnifies why it's so clear
That the system our society thrives on chides the gone
So here he walks, down a savaged path to hear the water's tide
As it crashes the receding line of sand, it hollers and cries
Replenishing the tear's in his eyes, he wants to plunge in
But the hidden sun sings his demise of demons in a dungeon
Of silence, and a mind that fails to relapse images he saw
When he was a child, before his brother was dead and it was his fault
Before his father used his hand to violently maul Sage's face
Burning his pupils to a memory that even he could never trace
Most will never understand the music of an indian
Native because of social conformity, submission of opinion
Art is the drying pastel needed to chalk up the dead bodies
To cough up the godly words consumed by prophecy
If only he could see the stars plummeting because of his death
He sold his soul and eternity for 24 hours of vision in stead
Now, he lacks the dollars to recollect his pastels and chemistry
An entity of little meaning, scening his chest with an elegy
Painting a morbid philosophy of flesh or what it seems to be
He fills in the cuts with an ink of drying clay washed up from the river
And forgets the crux of all his lying, the day out of the closet lingers
Whispers lyrics the devil manifests with memories so intricately
Melodies serenade thru the penalty of the given imagery
His skin cut to ribbons, his enemy is his own subconscious
A monster scaring him out the closet is now the lady ceasing the nonsense
His mother has been looking for her first born for months on end
Attends the city's primates, a jungle of rusting wires about to disconnect
Listening to the voices in her head, finding the speaker of these words
Turns to park at the curb, walking past the park benches and birds
Disturbed, a quick gasp exhumes from her gaping mouth
The shaping clouds casts a gloom on her son not making a sound
Cries into the night, blood clots stop the puddle of life
Sighs are not heard through the dimness located in his eyes
That are open...
Buried before the art gallery, he had a preciously kept salary
And left his memories to decompose by the ocean's shore
How comical, the way it takes a tragedy to reunite a family
The pattern of life and art, a rendition of emotions tore
His name is a vague thought of the lie he was given to carry
Waking up to walking out for his only true love to marry
A young soul clasped between sanity and reality
Feel the man he'll be without a companion to expand the seeds
Feel me, as the disease definitely breaths
Feel me, as the disease definitely breaths
Feel me, as the disease definitely breaths
Feel me, as the disease definitely breaths
God's pen is drying up...
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