Men!! at this instance,
my poetry and music are my only last hope.
Corruption, life corruption,
my optimism is been restricted to stretch itself beyond every other scope. Restrictions birthed figuratively through fleets of disappointments,
Misunderstanding my hope for a road, Their consistency of riding on me so serene, I can no more cope.
My existence is now full of worn out features and bore holes.

No more hope for me or less,
Other than my poetry and music, unless, The reason ar dey pan explain tire no evidence: life.
I must coddle with thanksgiving to God that I'm breathing,
At least I won't be flirting with a silent death... sighs.
Interested forks will chill on clues about my predicament.
Being attentive when I oozing lyrics is like blowing cold tres,
Reading through them likewise, tastes like sipping on the holy communion.
With the way I immerse myself on the concepts,
Other fields yearning my hope to play with some more should elsewhere their trades ply.
I've been scribbling dark dictions dead in the night, tryna make my talent cry,
Ihn voice nor go cut, been compelling it to let it out loud.

I entrusted my trust and expectations to innumerable entities:
Man, Organisations, Processes, Codes... Gosh darn let me hold in the rest.
Let me contain the test, they're all allergic to fraud free.
They've brought to drain my once fruitful aspiration tree.
They obtain my riped hopes using stones of their attractive features,
Just to adopt them as diets, now they've strive hard to devour all.
I offered my hopes to Just a bunchful of counterfeit processes,
Untrustworthy humans, they framed a see blocking view to never behold my needing state.

Every other pillar out their I donated my hope to just handled my feelings in as a toilet roll fate.
My last now is my music and poetry.
The hope is hungry, it yearns for liberty,
For me, from my buried invisible and unrecognized ability,
My perceived dead humanity.
I've been scribbling dark dictions dead in the night, tryna make my talent cry.
Ignition of fire sessions consistently in the booth.
Beating my chest saying
"Bo me na man, bo me na man"
But deep my heart and deep in my art I fail to soothe,
The burdens that have been pulling me down, hope axing that have been giving me bath.
My music, my poetry, my tone of plight, Cross my heart this last hope must reap me a glorious and plenish path.

© Talentrocks