script of the mediocre

they people with their feet touching old moldy books, crying beneath biblical angels and begging for this magical feeling to never go away and keep the hell away, trying their best not to rage in the traffic, dancing with temperance and anger. my oh my how they see, with this storm inside their lungs, bugs crawling trough organs and skin, full of water and bitter thoughts, this is how they move and beg for forgiveness, beg for peace, a direction, please they say; they want to be the ones in battles, shinning armor, bones and all; a fire in the tongue with poetry in their hearts but a sword in their hand. and sometimes, Il y aura du sang partout.