11900
Choreograph the concrete steps of the spring,
No smoking, No drinking, No Leans,
Transforming movements into one,
Spit from the light of what you lunch,
My actions speak louder than personal opinions,
Characters of fire limit the reasons,
I have a conscience sourced in my brain,
Forgive me from the shame my blood bleeds flames,
Seared of the endings my eyes wait upon,
The destiny intake by the people that come,
So it is the pain of reality,
Equated by the balance of the white house mentality,
Blamed and confined to the traphouse,
Tossing and turning the tracks out,
A cold black rose hidden in the cracks,
A new smell I approach in all the acts,
Building the distant by leaving the past,
Ebony formations lining the glass,
When is it we have a time to ourselves,
Black rose from the conscience, Black rose from death.
