Inside yourself there's a disease.

A Poem by Lee W. Deason

Help me out. I've felt the vacuum.
Talking with a tangible sense of no class.
Welcoming the raging silence it's raising.
Still facing the West screaming to the East.

Don't talk to my flowers scary man.
Cause there is no room in Eden.
For failure of contact, for the context.
Simply said your lying in a disgusting way.

Believe the textures when they lecture.
To you.
Frequency be my medicine. Alive or not.

Pierce the membrane just one time.
Bleed the malice you entertain.
Watch yourself squirm under the blade.
Watch yourself learn too late.
Cause you've begun to fade.

Believe the textures when they lecture.
To you.
Frequency be my medicine. Alive or not.
Proceed.
To the place where honestly meets quality.
Of character.