sentenced

Newborn words will flow out the pen
So often seemingly to ink themselves
From places unknown time and again
Never wonders far from bookshelves,
 
Dressing up the thought consummate
A conjugate that never procrastinates
Unlike some that can't wait to be late
Instead the words flow with no delay,
 
Well...only if the well is flowing, then ok...
 
A sentenced line lays low on induction
So a font the internalized construction
The walls are a deconstructed passion
With doors, the unlocked compassion,
 
Breaking out of the self-inflicting zone
Those bloody muddy ideas of low shit
Making a mockery of the truth known
And the process we are taught to spit,
 
While the new pen will just wait and sit...
 
And never need repent
Of lies that were spent
Writing of untrue sin
With made up bend
On our life road
With no end...