The Rebel
I’m almost there
I’m almost through
Lightening strikes
Fire ignites
The chemicals in my mind burst with flavours
But I feel stuck and glued with no favours
A composition writes for itself
I have fallen once again in a dark well
Not anger, fear or sorrow
Just frustration to a peak
Of the home of dead dreams
I shoot myself with a rifle of distress
I stab myself with a knife of past smears
These are not meant to be perfect
These are not meant to be destroyed
They were a fragment of the mind
Which speak for themselves
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