Will it stop when there is nothing left but ashes, And only few little green patches. Our promises are loud but we accomplish only in whispers. We blame it on the minister, But we are more sinister. We call ourselves children of god, Heads high and chests broad, But he is ashamed at the sick reality that we created. Ashamed at the heights that can touch heaven, But can't see the misery below. He watches as we waste away the rivers of reason tear away his gardens, and choke his clouds. He is always happy, us humans say, he is the almighty we say, he will save us from reality we pray. He is not real, We are the only ones who can save us from this plight. And we created this sick reality, we only stopped when it was our last breath.
The lazy writer's adventures, guides, and the truth behind being a lazy writer.