Madness is majestically killing me from the inside out.
I shake about in a lonely haze.
Madness will figure it out.
Lame brain match train mash cherries in an apple orchard.
Who am I really helping here?
Am I writing this out of fear of leaving a footprint or the idea of being meaningless.
Manic Monday's lead to astral Sunday's eventually.
And finally we all plead with the seed to grow in a barren wasteland.
What about now?
What about shouting makes it okay?
The same with planes arriving causing delay.
Life… is about checks and balance's… and keeping your brain attached while they try and strip it away to nothing, burn it, and leave you in the gutter.
"I'm dead!" you will say, while secretly you hide it away and pretend to be a useless zombie inferior to everyone else.
I'm still here.
I never knew what that means until now and how it is a statement but it is also dangerous…
Its like inviting death to dinner while you take your sweetheart out to lunch.
"I'll see you later." you say and just like that, without an instant of delay you're gone.

It’s a song.
And we all play along.

And another thing…
What's the deal with hand dryers?
Have an electric float.
Because even with a cherry on top you could've used a towel.
Speed up the process….
So you dry your hands and then go in to sit through a meeting about tea.
We are all so bouncy, bounding more than strides when we're born and then…
And then?
And then we all start doing things that don't make sense until it slowly drains us of all our money and we end up in the gutter.
Again.
Always with the gutter…
Like… why throw a curve ball through life when instead of being happy you found yourself a wife.
Married out of wedlock.
Found yourself a *****.
Speak as an intrepid person.
Well, now watch me soar.
I'm a lyrical principalist with lots of disciples all of whom I miss.
All of whom I miss.
One more time for this…
All of whom I miss.

And… its not like that bad. I'm not like.. A sad lad.
Its just, if you were born to do nothing… you might as well enjoy it with your friends.
But.. They were all born to do something.
So now I sit here on the fence.
Sort of a combination between humpty dumpty and a stray cat.
A strange combination at that.
No compensation for that…
Giving use to a fence.
42.

I've been sitting.
Oh, have I been sitting.
Lengthened legs be withering away...
Sullenly a sway in the wind.
I barely have a say where I go.
I move like the snow on a mountain.
Sitting collecting momentum until I fall all at once, once more...
I've been sitting.
Once I had a vision to be ridden of this mission.
No revision.
No new words.
A promise no one ever heard.
I've been sitting.

I'm a ghost of my past self....
an echo on a wall...
bound to fall...
or only falter.

I walk my own way...
the way I did before...
nothing more

I live each day dying more than the last.
Those days have passed.
Make it all last.

I love my life like a child loves a toy.
Like a father loves his boy.

I am the destroyer of worlds.
Never born to be in it.

I am the singer of squirrels.
Never born to be with them.

I am the ignorant preacher.
Fear gods wrath.
Kinda has a ring to it...

I am the deathly hollowed out man.
Fear the sands of time just to turn on a dime and let everyone know...

I'm the fake that nobody knows.
I'm the adventurer who only found dirt.
I'm the worm... that clogged the machine that never really worked.

I once went to the end of time and then I lied to myself about how I got there.

I am blue, I am red, I am grey.
I am impaired.

I am the patient nothing...
Born to say something.

Tick
tick
tick,
the sound was still ticking.
Tickling my mind.
Yet inside there was something still missing.
I'm behind the curve.
My mind can't keep up with my words.
My brain can't pass its turn.
Trying to stay awake is like biting into a stale steak...
Its hard.
My arm is so far away I can barely lift it.
My legs are so stray they won't stay near me.
Suddenly my eyes go black and I can think clearly.
"Relax" says the cataracts of my soul (at its best).
My synapses rest as I prepare for the synopsis of what's next. Dream on...
Time moves fast, but the ticking chime moves so slow, everything in my mind goes out the window.

Tick... tick... tick..,
The sound was ticking...

Time was whistling past noon as I sat in my bedroom with nothing to do but listen to the sounds of the hounds across the street singing songs unique to the windows of a widow whose husband had died too soon.
Tick, tick, tick.
Muscles twitch.
My eyes gloom...
bewitched on the sight of the swinging pendulum that relayed my bittersweet symphony.
Everything is symmetry.
Everything's that same dream.
I think the thoughts in my head like I’m in a scene.
I'll be sleeping like a dead man soon.
I tell the tall tale in my head with room to grow.
It doesn't.
The tiredness lurks.
The perks of my uncomfortable mattress is formidable to match wits with.
(end of part one)

Poetry,
It's been too long. I would write you a song or a sonnet but every-time I'm on it, I'm in it in a bad way. Like Eminem with nothing to say. I got low goals, but I'm not flying solo. Fry me up and serve me with some **-hoes. Wait a second... It's taking over me. The writers a hopped up and hyper playing with the paid piper. A cipher. A mockumentary life story. Never boring but never going for the glowing glory. That's the gory news. If I got to let loose, I got to refuse soon. So poetry it's been too long. I can see why you never call. I mangle these words on the cell. I'm trying to sell out with salad fingers for dinner I give myself the creeps. I take amazing leaps. I swing from tree to tree. If he sees you when you sleep does he get constantly bored, or does he dive in and engorge on the course of your dreams. Interesting it seems. Skin deep.

How it’s hard to be a person.
Lesson One.
Being one.
It’s fun when you’re a kid because mischief is cute, but now you wear a suit and “funerals” is in your vocabulary and there’s never peace of mind and you’re always weary for the times when you make a mistake because being an adult means you have to be great 100% of the time... unless you’re out of your mind in which case it’s legally forgivable, but you’ll never get back the friends who were critical and that brings us to
lesson two. Cynical.
Making friends.
Making friends is hard in this bizarre world of mine. As an adult you never have the time. You don’t know who to trust. If it’s the opposite *** it must be lust, right? I mean that’s all we’re ever told. Fight for the right to make out. The brave and the bold always go for the gold whenever lips are involved. Same *** is just as bad. It’s sad really. Hyper masculinity & competitive-ism run amok. It’s just our luck that we’re taught to be different but also to never give a ...
“Who cares if things are bad. Now let’s not get political. So you’re saying that when you were young you were proud to be whimsical. A trait that you developed. It’s personality? Well personally I think it’s weird. Originality? What are you queer?”
You see the point I’m trying to make? You don’t? Well for goodness sake, open your eyes. You think I’m not trying? You’re lying to yourself if you think this is easy.
Putting it all on paper.
Being an instigator.
They’ll say “see you later” for sure, but you bet they never will.
Alienated for the views of loving everybody.
It’s hard to be human.