Bottom of the barrel; the social discrimination show,
Stemmed from the female strength; illuminated from detest,
The more I win, more deprived I become,
The harder it becomes to be whom I actually be,
Yet none can stop me.
The game to mimic my power,
Turn haters of the confusion game onto me,
In a ruse to drain my power, So the past can be the now,
Now sung for me, My me was stolen, Used discursively
By those who want to use the increments of my soul subjectively
Vindicated by illusion, entrapped, I am contained
Fools master thoughts inside of my conscious and deliver them to others whom then refract and see the me in the picture, because the thoughts are stolen;
Flying with the storytellers, who represent mythology right
The functions of my body, are bound by lore’s of life and Earth’s conscious
Like everyone; But I do not will for her to yield.
I have my story,
My story was mine to say
Arguing about the ears, who listen, who turn,
Who penetrate to try and have the tale recede
My version will remain,
Assaulted by those who stalk others brainstems, and frame the focal way
‘In the marks of guilt and ignorance’, the evil wench did say of
How she got to make it into the south, in refute of what I see.
For actually it was a notch, a knot to the balloon, A way to keep me at bay
Whilst the banished one strung his immune
The bad man wants to escape
Wanting himself not to be from her, seen through to many eyes?
He actually believes a switch is fated, in the sands of time
I want to protect, Because I know
Our immortal characters are formed, from the three heart rule
A rule which is not fluid, or absolute
One that is of origin
The pathway and the energy: which must be obeyed.