A call from inside, dying to be heard,
That we push aside, repressed and configured.
Virtue of message which patterns obliterate.
Mediocre image of a mind who's inarticulate.

In a doubtful region where vigour and drawing back cohabit,
Intention is cushioned, then words never reach the lips.
At the arrival, a mere idea of the emotion,
The initial signal is driven to the brink of stagnation.

So many things that need to be said,
But we're goddamn scared of them being interpreted.
So many things that we want them to tell,
But we just don't try to get the moral of the tale.

All those measures used in the name of security
Should be gathered to concrete your thoughts precisely.

Imposed on the mind speech tinged with confusion,
So we step behind in a defensive motion.
A system in crisis, unable to focus.
Wrong analysis project all the rest in minus.

Curious paradox of an ear that pretends altruism,
Imposing his thoughts not to solve but to start the mechanism
Which between the speakers creates a distance that leads to schism.
Intention-made flowers finally let a scent of stinking egotism.

So many things that need to be said,
But we're goddamn scared of them being interpreted.
So many things that we want them to tell,
But we just don't try to get the moral of the tale.

Egocentricity that projects on the word's surface,
When we should breathe their emanation and embrace.