Texty: Despised Icon. The Ills Of Modern Man. Nameless.

I crave for even the faintest touch of inspiration
Its rivers have seemingly dried up
The past weeks have silently gone by like nameless citizens in a waiting line

Scattered grey clouds have altered my strategic game plan
I must dig deep

An amalgam of taunting voices wittingly took the limelight away
from the notes that should be treasured
I have been comfortable wrapped in discouragement for far too long
Words and actions have somehow lost some of their sweetness
I need to regain my thirst for optimism

Deaf will be these ears to you serenades
Blind will be these eyes to your charades
Cold will be the front that welcomes you

Scattered grey clouds have weakened my strategic game plan