400
Is it a fiction of my imagination my mind is still waiting. My thoughts are in a Turmoil of plaque. As I play with the feeling of being free in a world of sin. I forget to just Be me. Beneath the surface I fight my own image. A Blemish of reality sinks deep. Picture my thoughts on the moon; my heart is diverse from pain. What lies on the tongue? All I see is lies on the tongue. The truth becomes bitter then sweet. A reliable conversation But all I see is me. The mirror is a fabric of who I really want to be. Before the words are in place Stepping stone are used as tools. Therefore the past becomes an instant memory. Before me, words were made to empower. But oh how I devour their minds like a drown Flower. In our hands the soil remains. I see myself in the mirror but love still seems strange. That whisper in my ear was God telling me I love you the same.
