Snap my head back,
quick instant relapse,
passionate magnetic tics tacs lined across the skyline with matching colored pasts.
Don't react, don't press it,
don't touch it,
don't pull it.
Don't fucking talk to me like that.
no more misses nice bitch, I'm fucking through with it.
Stuck on gauze wrapped bliss and punishment,
stuffing my face like a glutton, shit, today was shit regardless of any accomplishments or lackluster compliment,
staples deep in the brain sewed that rip better than a stitch.
Slipped out the steeple for some funny honey spit,
for some birthday madness happy randomness to sooth the 6 hours of what I'd call plain Godly malice.
And to think now he's gonna take what you can't afford,
kick open the door and store away your cookies in his horde.
Bored or maybe strung on that livelihood of running shit with dopey eyes and schizophrenic shaken looks of "But I'm not done with it."
It was a sword,
or maybe just a knife.
Quick stab to the back,
or the long slash to your life.
Why did it have to be today that the gun went and bit the bullet?
Construed it blatantly enough even a deaf man understood it.
Pull it in,
Deeeeeep,
no push it out.
Spout happiness out cha mouth,
wish for some solidness in that house.
You claim you're a man but you're a mouse,
and every day the hole gets smaller while they're hunting you, ouch.
Maybe that was a bit harsh, huh? Yeah, I can slow it down a little.
Don't worry I can sing a melody if you can fake the fiddle.
We can't speak in riddle, but someone's mistaken something.
You think I'm here to twiddle,
I'm just waiting for the golden wing salvation claimed to bring.
And yes I'm stuck here in the middle but I'm still trying to spread my wings,
throwing objects out the sling into the meandering model of our home in late spring.
Fucking lucky bird got out the cage just so it could sing,
now I'm stuck here wondering if I've gone and done the right fucking thing.
----
Solid paint board,
make more folk lore than a snake lord.
Target,
aim for-ward,
you've got a imagination instead of a sword.
Poured out the remedy till there wasn't anymore.
Sore from the time spent bent on some ill wishes.
Sick on some high self esteem and tropical fishes,
and verbs that make you bored.
----
Break the mass hysterical mixes of retribution and salvation. Feed the restless animals the tribunal revolution and desensitization. Fuck this nation of wannabe mommy's, pop stars and computer screens, I want real things, fucking people with prosperous poverty dreams, eyes bright shooting beams of the imagination they breathe.
---
