Social media has us not so sure
about what’s true or maybe not
When it’s news, we’re not sure
Not even when it maybe not.
News is new, obviously right?
Must be true, not maybe news
Gray is neither black or white,
So nothing in-between is news
We’re suffering and call it living;
right where we remain seething.
The reason we’re slowly dieing,
obviously is our own choosing.
This torture is of our own doing;
and this enslaves our reasoning.
Every day we fire up the boiling
and yet dish our all the blaming.
What we do at any point in time
predominantly is act on impulse
All situations in space and time
have some reaction to enforce.
Allow me to call your attention
to a most despicable situation.
One that people ever question,
but it’s only actually in reaction.
All alive extend their creation
with survival acts of procreation.
When choice create a situation
then crime is truly the abortion.
What colors are people really?
It’s been a race thing, isn’t it?
Always been a contest surely;
ran all through time, ain’t it?
The sun rises to make a day,
moon smiles white at night.
Color of life shades our way,
every life is as dark or bright.
Admiring success from afar
is a very popular past time
which inspires him or her
who strives over time.
Be advised that success is;
not about luck or the man.
It’s simply behind him is
a stick and a woman.
It’s common in law as said,
that ignorance is no excuse.
For lots, knowledge has paid;
for much more it will confuse.
For what we claim as ours
is not as we acknowledge.
As ignorance brings chaos;
surely as much knowledge.
Aren’t we all citizens of earth;
firstly simply humans beings?
Sure as we’re free in thought
we’ll love or hate some things.
We’re too different to be same,
too alike in ways that’re insane.
So the expression of our tastes,
merely make up our many faiths
Those who love the most
tend to regret the most.
Those who may feel lost
are mostly not yet lost.
At the end of a life round
surely all is lost not found.
All people act like little Weasels
Pretend Beavers and tiny Seals
Their selfishness is quite gifted
He who is told sorry is cheated
All relationships are personal
Nothing human is impersonal
All Life is an act as it is meant
No one should tell you different
Everything that has a beginning
most surely will have some end.
It is logical and simple thinking;
one with proven enduring trend.
The much that’s made and had
will at some point all be waste.
Timeless happiness will be sad
as every world ends in its haste.
When last did you’ve a habit?
It just happened on its own
or you toiled and worked at it?
Not the filthy things you do
like smoking or biting nails.
But those tiny trivials we do
Like Indian nod; only they do,
the Negroid’s sense of Rythym
And the Caucasian’s damn ego.
There’s no real loyalty anymore,
everybody wants more for sure.
Family will enslave until you die
and colleagues work a same lie.
All friends are all only as needy;
there’s nothing new about that.
Love is a bargain and so moody,
everything is priced, it is a fact.
Once a race was in place
for today and tomorrow.
Today says a step to pace,
tomorrow rather they row.
Yesterday the only umpire,
who decided they just wait.
Thus a race we never hear,
tomorrow is today now here;
yesterday is always so unfair.
Waking is breathtaking daily,
horizons are unendingly new.
Time ticks on and away likely;
everyday an old chore renew.
Her love is a task so sweet,
forged in suicidal sacrifice.
Daily she makes love sweat
murdering her own fire in ice.
Within and outside every being
is the good, the bad and the ugly.
It is true of every single entity;
be it inanimate or alive or dying.
Nothing more is fitting naturally.
Eyes liken windows to the head
and the mouth, likens the door.
As open eyes daily enlightened,
the closed mouth the more adore.
Sex is like nothing else.
It is as nice as it is not;
it is reasonable no less
and useless too, of a sort.
Knowledge of it is bliss
Ignorance of it more so
Sex would largely please
It is much like breathing
Once started, no stopping
Chasing the sun into the sky
always ends in one life time.
Only dreams can actually fly,
for aspirations merely climb.