There will be no blogs.
People will be lucky to write on a log.
Maybe etch their initials with a pocket knife.
Look at each other under the burning sky.
Or try and find comfort in each other in the by and by.
Everyday waking up and looking for food.
Avoiding predators as much as you can amuse.
Make it a game maybe and you might win.
The bears are the monsters and you are too thin.
What do I have to give?
What have I seen that is of worth.
What have I heard that is something my lips should birth.
To repeat again to you.
When I don’t feel anything anymore.
It is as if everything I have fought for is gone.
Inside of me I am full of blackened hope.
Outside I am surrounded by a bad joke.
What can I do?
I’m tired of bitching.
I’m tired of snitching.
I’m tired of itching.
I am seizing up inside.
And then my angels walk in.
They are my children.
They turn this chaos into reason.
That I might live to see them grow.
That they might live to let me know
That love is the reason for this.
Sitting on the edge of the abyss.