Broken open, the fountain's foaming.
His coping mechanisms are showing,
the chromatophores got him ghosting.
Boo! I'm out.

It’s like,
now that I’m high I haven’t the slightest.
I’m trying to write but the font feeling tired.
Word to the wise, I’m outa this mind.
Time to shine like the whole week whined.
Joke.
Nocturnal like the sun been broke.
Look, It’s all I know.

He’s meddlesome like the specimens
knocking on his skeleton.
It’s beats over everything,
‘cept for a bit of Methamphetamine.
This dissident’s impenitent.
Rhythm sitting like a blueprint;
Building villages for the pilgrimage
then sinking ships fore they’re ever sent.
Quick, crack the casket, he lacks a cat nap.
His dreams got caught up in her fishnet.
It’s madness. It’s habit. Go ahead, ask Alice.

I should be famous.
Yeah, I'm barefaced.
I think you're aimless.
The top is so spacious,
no elbows or vagrants.
Think spaceships.
**** it, add the chips.
My word arrangement's hotter
than the Devil's basement.
Catch me getting gazes,
I'm getting high off their faces.
**** it, I should be famous.

You look familiar.
I think I’ve seen you here before.
Perhaps you wore yourself a different face;
One of plastic, or perhaps it’s just mâché.
Either way, I’m still happy to see you.
Even if it is fake.
It’s been a while since I’ve felt okay.
I’m dying inside and have no one left to say,
“It’s but a day in the shade of many.”
I lay awake and cling to fleeting dreams
as if I myself could master their wings.
Maybe one day I’ll find the seam
they seem to keep on slipping through.
Who would want such a pathetic thing?
I’m a deadbeat and have been since birth.
The zombie boy’s alone in his own world,
chewing up a storm with his mangled throat.
Here I go again, talking to myself
like there’s a single ounce of hope.

I'm feeling tipsy again.
I been spinning and dribbling spit,
like there was a point between me and a win.
Half the time my head's in the clouds.
****, right now I'm thinking out loud.
Heaven's a crowd.
I'd rather sit it alone.
Hand in the shade,
all the way down to the bone.

I think I’m getting sick. I keep on heaving bits of ink
down this ***** ******* sink. I’d try to wash my hands,
but for me, ships just seem to sink. And where would I go?
Who would I be? Jack on some jolly ******* sea?
I’d rather die than live another day like a leech.
Put me beneath the weeds, I belong to the trees.