So, picture this; I'm at the edge of a canyon,
A canyon I may have dug myself,
With a little help from my psyche,
The mind, the Soul, or the Spirit,
These words we make-believe to exist.
We write them, we think them we spit them,
We make them up into nursery rhymes.
We write them we think them we sing them,
Or speak them in truth or in lies....
Now we can feel, from the thought of existing, we're just what we think , and no more.
We are looking for ideas to work on,
We're raising and lowering tones,
We think that we're good,
We think that we're bad,
And we're stired into emotion again.
So, back to the edge of the canyon,
I may have dug for myself,
With a little help from my psyche...
I may believe every word.
In these depths of swirling illusions,
With losses and gains and the have-nots,
The truths lost in lies and decieve,
All of these, in an elusion of time locked in memory, denies access to the divine.
So we think, to create, words, expressions,
Ideas, and these alter emotions,
On which we choose to act....
Reactions.