I don't want to write. I'm not in the mood.
But I have to do it. It's a thing I do.
So, sorry y'all. You'll have to bear with me.
I can't even get drunk right now. Oh the misery.
If you want to skip the *******,
Click down to the ******* squiggley.
I write when the overwhelming reality
Of post-happiness and emptiness surrounds me,
Drowns me in the grip of the undertow
Issuing from all those things I knew
And wouldn't let go of. So they grew
To be stones immovable, the blue
Churning to make room for their slow
Descent into the unknown.
All this is, is my effort to make a bubble.
Whether to signal for help or help myself,
I don't know. I guess whichever is less trouble.
The lovable, down-on-his-luck, real distant
Misfit who knows exactly how to fit in.
I suppose that's me, if you choose to believe
This is me that I'm being. I won't be
Fooled so easily. For indeed I am the fool,
The fool who used his hands
To take food from other lands
And ran on his two feet
After kicking something sleeping.
Something sleeping selflessly.
Something sleeping just for me.
Hell I had to wake it up,
I'm not worth a price so steep.
Everyone should have their chance.
I ****** mine up, so **** me.
~
I told you all to bear with me.
If you've stuck around, that's nice to see.
I don't care either way, the point this is making
Is no point at all. I just need to write.
It's like pressure being taken off a really filled balloon.
It's like somehow quieting down a goin-ape-**** baboon.
Take one is always great, until you record over it with take two.
My lines aren't always great, but you'll snort em up anywho.
I know, I'm all over the place. But these words, they stick like glue.
Maybe that's why I need to write. Maybe that's why I hate it, too.
They never seem to come out right. These words hardly fit any shoe.
Yet, I need something, somewhere to start.
Bleeding heart poet? I'll play the part.
Evolve like a **** to a shart, and become
A mean-spirited thing. A bled heart sum.
A regular in the slums
Breathing trash-burn oxygen.
Looking up at the sun
Wondering where my moxy went.
Burdening my pen,
Which shifts it to the page;
Estranged from the tangle
Now, this unaimed auto-ramble.
I suppose everything should have an end
If only to leave openings to begin again.
But knowing me, I'll probably nail my shin
And fall to the ground, oo-ing and ahh-ing when
It's time for me to get off the stage.
Just take a look at my life, any page.
You'll probably wonder how I've survived on such a wage.
Well, I'm thrifty, *******. I'm insane.
I'm like a perfectly fine cat, but with mange.
You won't touch me, but my own kind will still play.
And if you do, my disease spreads like a plague
And consumes you until there's nothing left but disdain.
Please try to pet me so I can run away.
I want all the attention, without any of the danger.
I know you've fed me....like, every single day.
But that doesn't change that we are both predators.
And that hand that feeds will meet catastrophe
If it happens to wander too close to me.
Cliche time: it's not you. It's me.
So I write and while I'm writing
I find the signs of my demise
Comforting in light of my shortcomings
Falling in place along these lines