Writing should be a pouring out like rain drops fall from the sky
So why is writing so hard?
Why do I try?
Testifying your love (again and again) screaming it aloud
Only inerrant truth is dense enough to fall from clouds
Lies are light and loosely held, at least for me, I hope for you
But appear to hang low in the sky, being seen and seemingly true
You must look up to see the clouds, which give us the rain,
But we are used to searching blinding in mists, yielding only pain
We don't look up, we can't anyways
The fog doesn't allow the sane
Like glaring through a window-pane as condensation has hidden the plain
You scrutinize too much the world in which you flirt
The truth that falls from the sky is on deaf ears and strikes the dirt
You're like the church Christ saved-a whore,
Constantly lifting your skirt at every opportunity (any sin you see)
How much is enough?
When will you come back to me?
Have you had you're fill?
I'm trying to kill the thing that is making you miserable