Caught in a circle of deceit
all belief is confident
on the surface,
inside, underneath, below
every motive becomes
unclear,
yet the moments continue
to move like the ever active second hand,
without any primary feature
life simply becomes a race.
I'm a teacher, again
To me writing is currently a release. I haven't quite decided to what degree it is I'm searching within my words, yet, I feel something matters somewhere, right?
