Perhaps, In another life I stood a king.
Or I just a slave.
I was underneath the eagles's wing.
Maybe, a sea-shell swept away; a wave.
In another life perhaps more then, than now.
It indeed tires me asking when, where and how;
strange it is for I differ from my own sometimes,
to them these are but lofty signs.
And desire I not stay for too long;
Maybe I was an explorer or an adventurer.
But why do I feel that this is not where I belong?
If only I had a way to ask this question to the creator.
I am very fond of Midieval times.
I pretend I can rule an inner nation inside of me.
I make up characters of faces I've never seen and created a friend I call Wallis McGee.
And form my own little world where I made him powerful enough to fight against any crimes.
My thoughts are alive.
My imagination is a combination of thousand ideas forgotten.
It is as if I'm the last heir to the mind of Da Vinci, Bram Stroker and Edward Poe; all in me alive.
Sometimes I stare myself in the eyes of the mirror and wonder to whom I am begotten.
I know, that no one can make me happy.
And were always told I'm too good to be true.
And rather tangled as spaghetti.
But if there are others like me, we are certainly few.
For It's not even in my nature to open up.
To society I'm but a broken cup.
If you wish to know the real me,
You'll only forget who you are,instead.
Now why risk leaving yourself upset?
I cling to women such as Enheduanna,
and I'd stare the entire year if I could at Mona Lisa.
I do not know why but I see things many can't...
I could almost say I draw inspiration from a dead plant.
I confuse myself sometimes,
I get lost in mine own rhymes.
But I always tend to understand my own indifference.
Or am I just lost in existence?