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My sins are imitative of

My empty consciousness.

I don’t feel the high

To be creative anymore

Or much less of anything else.

My seemingly well wishers

Tell me I’m too careless for someone my age.

But I still sit there listlessly,

Waiting for the bee clouds to

Come and sift through me.

That day, I’ll be like everyone;

I’ll be everything,

Just not today.

My sins are callous.

What exits them holes?

All the drops of anger and lies

I try in vain to eat away.

Devouring himself in the

Cold embrace of Death,

I met a stranger just like me.

Head of explosions, did he have.

A black saint walking in

My streets, this numbness

Suffocated him too.

And now everyone is a puppet once again.

These minuscule complications, you see them?

Others remain oblivious to them.

But a mind so loud cannot, shall not.