(rap)port

Sometimes I speak before I write, the tongue inside my mind- it's like a whip that lashes from side to side, and I grab it like a dogs tail- it turns around and bites. And words, they flow down like a river goes, into the ocean flow, but I ain't got no flow, I'm just a rowboat -I learned to row. For an artist is one who expresses themselves through the tongues of limbs, that sing hymns to the Divine within-- I wish I  were true to do, because I can paint, I can dance, I can sing, and rhyme lines in a minute.
A minute is all a man needs to sin it.... or win it?
Damned, you're in hell and you're gone, it's the bell, and then that is all. The coroner's delight and the emperor's fall. And we live to die but do we die to live? So does that mean that death is less than life or life is less than death? Should we live in regrets? But how do we know down which road time will go? And down which path regrets will follow? Snow falls and stars die while suns cry for clear skies. We need clouds to shade us from the ruthless truth. The truth that the light in our mind is a trick designed to shade the heart from a fight. Or from flight clipped by fright?  We pull feathers off of birds so we can fly and they're left to die.
We're just factors in a game of chess that He-who-is-at-rest plays during his free time. And as the moves go on we stop and think: one moment its mother's milk and the next is numbing drinks. It helps us sustain, get rid of the pain, and sometimes in vein you struggle to regain your sensations, though feigned. So prone to decay, you sleep as if died-- get mummified. Some think they're designed for us to find.
Is it what we find that make us, or do we make what we find? Is it our dreams that break us?--but when you break dreams, you become undefined.
Peek from outside the greenhouse, they look in.
You pray for warm days. I pray for thick skin.