How am I supposed to write when I'm content?
When my lungs are full, my heart beating rapidly to her rhythm.
I can't claim I'm a victim of neglect, or a victim nevertheless.
***** earth turns desolate so I live where it's fertile and ain't got to worry about sacrosanct.
If you didn't know me then you might think that I've closed myself off a bit,
You might think that even if ya did.
But honestly, I feel like Bowie retreating to the desert to hide away and let the whims of creativity take the reins without so much ******* interference.
Anyway, I left a message on your machine, sorry you can't hear it.
It said I was going for cigarettes and the rest is just history,
So would you mind mailing these dear john letters to the ****** I've bred?
How many little projects I got running around with legs of their own that I ain't even know?
My inbox keeps filling and I'm barely here.
Too many books to write, like literally, I'm backed up on a deadline and procrastinating in free-verse.
I don't like to rehearse what I do, nor do I really outline or heavily plan.
God exists in the unknown, so I do my best to let the unknown through and getting the **** out it's way.
How many people you meet tuck away fifty books in less than two years, paycheck cashed and disappeared again?
About time I get my name on some more of this ****,
Either that or quit,
And I ain't close to done yet.
Success isn't a ladder you climb, it's a cycle.
Or get down on your ******* knees and gag of life's ****,