Through The Door, Where Dreams Implore, Leaving Questions Asking More

Speak Truth, Says The Dying Poets Minds,

Speak Truth, In a Dying World Where Real Is Hard To Find

(Written by Jonathan Shaw)

See what I know, passive, regressive lie.

See what I know, cognitive distortions in the air.

Smoked-filled lungs,

Emergency response is needed,

But no one seems to care.

I try and yearn,

To so eagerly pull sway,

In this industry that orchestrates all,

To bow down and obey.

But I ponder as the free thinker that I am,

Listening to the palm that was read from my hands.

I was born like most,

With a contract signed that stems my ghost.

Now on my journey of awakening,

The free-thinking mind,

I find it hard to fit into a society that's so blind.

Dare all that read these memoirs of mine,

To stop and really think,

Before impulsively engaging in the norms.

Question a lot, I dare you,

It's good food for thought, most people say.

Bleed a false way of a creed,

But I have lived and died over and over again.

This new life I'm destined to write memoirs,

Even in this digital pen.

Warnings to not be so eager,

To fill your bellies with more golden chocolate bars.

If you are like me and seek real bliss,

Then open up to change and give with your heart.

Says the beggars on the streets,

Who have no cotton silk sheets.

Why do we not truly see change?

Most think they make an impact,

But not on a grand, bigger scale,

As history continues to repeat.

Cryptically stating this is hell,

If change really has begun to transform,

Then we would stop seeing the homeless so scorned.

The meek shall inherit their due,

But we need to step out of the basics,

And start the next process of things in phases.

Instead of rats chasing cheese,

Maybe we should all get down on our knees,

And let the divine, the one real creator of creation,

Take hold and start a movement we call a revelation.

Hindus, Muslims, and Christians,

All similarly alike,

But heavy is the thorn that calls to prick new blood,