We’re just impersonating some deep
confusion we hold inside. We’re
writing just to let something out but it’s
stuck in our hearts and in our minds. It
forces us to pick the pen up.
Absorbing our surroundings and
observing everyone around while we
keep on living in the world we created for us.
We live inside our own minds, we ride on
our train of thoughts and we never stop.
Middle of the night, drunk on life we
turn the light on just to write down a line.
Our hand is mostly manipulated by the
alter ego that’s taking over us. If you look
closely you’ll see it in our eyes.
Sometimes we seem insane, but that’s not
even close to the truth. We’re just strong and
weak enough to write down everything you all
hide inside. We state our minds on a blank page
hoping that words will make a difference.
We’re a paradox to our own words and, most of the
time, when we read what we write even we don’t know
what did the poet want to say with each line.