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untitled 8
by: the IMP
i wonder often what is the purpose...
of life, of love, of so many different things...
they keep crawling like spiders in my head
they keep coming without a sense of retribution
i felt insane amidst the beat in my head
i am alone often in the jungle of clairaudience...
sensing things, hearing sounds that lingers...
i wish there was silence to condole my grievances,
but silence is my haunter i could not run from
i dwell in a room i call escapism,
for there are so many things i could not understand
why do i live in solitude? why do i run?
why does so many suffer in flick of a dime?
why do God permit wickedness throughout?
why i ... why do i live to die?
sometimes i sit in a corner like a scared brat
incapable to love yet always trying hard
to die without a bit of purpose; my incubus
to live without a pinch of sense; my succubus
am i just a machine that God plays?...
or a mud of clay that grimes astray?
i know many live just like me
for some reason we are pointless smokes...
to live to die... i don’t know why...
for i am lost in this world of lie...
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