in the west unknown

all of these my own meandering.
slow burning Wit waiting for reciprocation
and where do these thoughts travel from
when they filter through to this life?
from where are all my passions placed?
in love, in lust in consciences binding soul?
How do I know who is good to think for?
when will I be burned for knowing and writing more?
who can you trust if you never leave your house?
who can you hold if you never turn the lights out?
why all this practise in the art of self preservation
if the route to good intentions barely has light to be seen in?
all of these musings, like all of these little crickets
I am banking on the last shot in the bottle says you don't notice
and if I get caught beginning to show you my true colors
how can I hide if I cant lie and lay down like all the others?
no thoughts left to regulate. I don't care if you wont associate.
I didn't get born just so you could put me out
I have my own brand that needs to be strewn about
in the end of all mad mans rambles
is a woman who works to put down the candles
and when the quill is warn and the appetite wet
this woman will pour out her magic and her sweat.
and at last history demands a name to take credit
the most memorable name is a name unknown