Mar 10, 2013

I remember the rush,
As I type not much,
Recollections to keep,
For when I feel weak.

That may not be broken by lies,
Yet serve a purpose,
To resurface…

I am a sheep in a field,
Ordered to move; I yield,
Threatened by society.
Cast aside as a minority.

Do not know who the shepherd is,
Yet order nay stir, and amiss;
I walk to him,
No words just hymn,
My voice non-existent,
In a world of resentment…


I like philosophical books, math diagrams, poetry, helping others to think, and black and white pictures. Subscribe via RSS.