the Ghost may be a friend, the demon might have a deal,
the hunted may become hunters. can’t believe i woke up, life is so short, the
pain is like a jury. lost inside those things, no love on the Nile, Egypt is in
my lineage. thank you for the allotment, the bad guy I really ain’t, to tell it
according to Scarface. by a methodology to sail seas, by an apology when he
wasn’t wrong, by a need to control where it wasn’t earned; such references,
double dribbling, asking to be pardoned. the aim is cocked back, the explosion
was subsided, a voice, in mother’s ears, her little boy—the pain it was caused,
hurting like deeply, trying to understand—the methodology, a man being good,
feeling more than straight maniacs; a conscience element, to reverse—is to feel—to
drink emotion—is to fret eternity. Love in a bad mood, always complaining, why
in rain to leave the scar?
