Thoughts …



Passing by,

At the rate of sixty thousand a day,

But who is counting;

There are just too many.


Mostly distractions,

Leaving as fast as they came,

Not slamming the door,

But rather taking a sneak peak of my soul,

And leaving without a goodbye,

Hustled out in a crowd,

Only looking forward.


Then the leaders come,

A different color,

Waving a flag,

Shouting notice me,

Or you may regret it.

… If you let me go.


These are the ones which make up our conscious,

The unwilling to daydream,

Thoughts who want to form us,

From wherever they came.

These lit up thoughts,

Are hard to extinguish.


Yet, this is my must.

For otherwise my true self cannot be presented,

And offered up without agenda.

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