If i fixate on the mix-tape
of the dead rapper guy that
got shot up
at a donut shop
while some cops defended
then what am I
doing with the life that
I’ve been give?
I’m not standing up for the ones
I love or even their tasty treats.
I’m just using myself to inhabit
the blank space we call
Earth in a manner such as this.
You have defended every single
ounce of life that you pulsate
through your heart
into my lungs
and back out your ass
that’s not romantic at all
I think the world hates me
Why do I feel so abused
I’m not sure what the hell is going on
This life is a piece of cake
The cake is a lie
References are overused
I have been so defended in the way that you look at the stars and oscillate through the looking glass on the beautiful night with the rainbows and butterflies and the screaming ox that chews on some hay. Where have we gotten the ideas that pooping in grass is acceptable?
I question the reality that I live in
with a broken glass bottle on the floor
and some burnt toast in the toaster.
What brought me to this point?
Why can’t I move on?
I’m so stuck in the feeling of insecurity
that I forget to live my life in the moment.
But I need a reimagining, not a makeover.
I hate calling her my rebound
due to the fact that i’m in love with her
or she’s in love with me
or we’re mad at the world and sticking it to each other
what the hell is she doing?
what the hell am i doing?
is this the place for reconciliation?
maybe so, maybe not
there is no way of telling
but she does have a nice rack.
She was the rebound
to my flexographic dick swinger
because obviously I’m not man enough
to fuck until the break of dawn
or hold someone tight while they wake up
as the world comes to a pose on the edge of life
but who can blame it for using photoshop?
I was so strung out on coke that I lost all perception of time and internal thoughts. Sure, I was coherent, but my emotions were built into nothing more than an inebriated game of Jenga. I wish I didn’t give up so easily, but when I go on that ride with the first blow, giving up becomes effortless.
They tell me I’m creative, but all I feel like I am is a man with feelings that spread on the page like Nutella or JIF or the I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter spreads on a piece of toasted wheat bread. But somehow my pages aren’t soggy or toasted brown. Maybe my words don’t belong on the page; maybe I’m doing it wrong.