My existence is persistence,
in pursuit of,
not black and white,
but the grey
between.
Somewhere lost in translation
was in the manifestation.
Created by love,
raised in hate.
Desperately seeking
what’s real and what’s fake.
Driven by a perception
that roars thunder
and takes shape,
in between
pure love
and pure hate.
Optimism is not real
and glory is not fake.
Be careful where you lay,
for your own sake.
Days turn to months
and months to years.
Plush turns to wrinkle
and love into hate.
Self-doubt into
reality and
the critics await.
By Nick Riley