If you are the healer lay your hands on me, I am diseased you can set me free. If you have the will I have the desire, if you collect ashes send me into the fire.

If you are the liar then I am the fool, I wanna hurt myself by being close to you.

So catapult me into the sun and I'll burn baby burn, catapult me into the sun and I'll burn just for you.

If you are the liar I am the fool I will survive to be used as your tool.

Ten pence piece lays heavy on the heart, loose change love affair that's falling apart.

so catapult me into he sun and I'll burn baby burn, catapult me into the sun and I'll burn just for you.

Breakdowns and shakedowns got me bruised by your heart, it wasn't the words it was action from the start! You are the seducer I am the user together we feed off of each other.

so catapult me into the sun and I'll burn baby burn, yes catapult me into the sun and I'll burn just for you.

And so I slipped into the mirror;
finally after years of staring, I saw the ripple.

I crossed over into fantasy, a paradise, my personal wonderland.
I wonder where I'll land.

And down I go into the unknown,
Red string theories, space and time; time and space.
Running on the endless slipstream
And so I open my eyes and overcome the race.

I opened my eyes and to my surprise I stood before the garden;
I opened my eyes and to my surprise I stood before the Queen.
I opened my eyes and to my surprise; I was falling again.

Free fall into my dream,
Dance with me and by my queen;
This is my reality, grab my hand and walk through the mirror with me.

It has been said that life is too short to spend in social trenches.

The No-man's land of daily civil warfare.
We want to be liked, we want to be understood, we want to be edgy without offending.
We want approval of the masses, we want to be desired and chased.
Validation.

Validation.

We want the want, the fame, the love, the praise, the opinions and ideas.
The winning side.

We wake up everyday and look out across the social media minefields,

The front line Social Justice Warriors, the Alternative Right guerillas.

The mass armies of the Left and Right.

The Anarchists now sip tea with the Libertarians.

Topic to topic we send our troops to fight over hill over dale!
We try, we pick our battles, we fight on all fronts.
The winning side seems so clear yet the shells never stop.
Dropping alongside, bombs carpet or drone.

We have the thousand yard pseudo thought.

Plant your feet firmly on the ground, we need boots on the air,
We need planes in the sky and ships sending reinforcements.

Modern day field intel from a not so secret spy social network.
Mid level cluster bombs of thought and quick bit pieces of food rations for thought.

Mustard gas conversations that choke the throats of some while others inhale and laugh.

Drone strike incoming, retreat from the view of public, scorched earth policy.

Some wave the white flag out of exhaustion only to go fight another battle on some far away topic.

Neutral ground hard to find, teetering on the edge of a war, always ready to fight.  
The cycle repeats and yet those who have learn’ed now pick and choose when to fight.
They sit on the sidelines and wait for the right time to strike, there may not a way to retreat all the way but there is a way to cause the most effective change in the lease of painless ways.

Life is too short to spend in social trenches, it is too short to jump from battle to battle, it is not worth the energy spent fighting the endless armies day in and day out and let life go by because you get lost in the fog of war.

To quote Douglas Adams “I’d rather be happy than right”.

Strong words that should be said more.

Ugly is beautiful, ugly is under the pretty skin and colors we wear.

When one thinks of art and the beauty of words it must always sound nice, it must follow and follow traditional laws of language;
**** that.

Art is an expression of self and soul is it not?
Humans don’t all have beauty in them, humans don’t always have some wonderful soul or righteous heart, so why should all art show the beauty of life?

Why not mock the beauty? Why not admit that sometimes we’re ugly, sometimes we’re crass, cold and vile?
Are we not all we are? Do our life experiences not shape and make us?

Life is not perfect and we all have pitfalls, everyone is flawed yet when it comes to art we deny the fact and mask it by saying “art reflects the tragedy” or “I use art to express my pain” and in that way, we make it romantic, but what if, we just showed it as it is.
What if we just said exactly what we’re feeling, what we’re thinking, what we want?

Must we use the beauty of words and paint and rock to hide our shame, or fear, to mask our greed and lust?
Sometimes people aren’t pretty, sometimes they have no soul, so what if some art was ugly?

What if I didn’t use proper words or language
Or started to; break up words by what-ever means I saw fit for the piece?

It would confuse, it would anger, it would look bad.
But that would be closer to human than always trying to turn some act of woe into some poetic moment.
For a moment reject the beauty, reject the urge to be clever or pristine, smear some mud across the page, ugly can be beautiful in itself because ugly is just that.

You are not the best, you are not the best looking, the fastest, the strongest, smartest, you do not know everything- so it would make sense that art at times should be flawed, that art should be ugly and broken, that art should offend you at times.
There is a humbleness to be found in ugly art, in art that is raw and exposed.
Once you take away the fluff that people are attracted to, once you strip her down and expose what she is, you may find that while some art is a flawless figure in her **** skin- other art may be torn, ripped and festering with disease but she’s not hiding anything in that moment- and on top of that. She doesn’t care.
Why should every poem sound nice?
Why should art have rules and laws?

Of course, we must have laws and standards, of course we must have laws and rules HOWEVER in times and for somethings- breaking that mold, stepping outside of the box, that is needed.
I say ugly art hides nothing and shows everything, pure surface value with no hidden meaning or deeper philosophy, which won’t do for some people.

Some people will rip art apart to understand its meaning refusing to believe in face value because they can’t understand the face value of ugly, they have to have something pretty, they have to have something clever or witty or something they can cling to as being elite as if that somehow places them above the social stature at which they reside.

Trust in ugly art, trust in unpoetic words, trust in blemished statues, trust in unpolished raw music, trust in ugly from time to time.

What lurks beneath the visible waves.

The teeth graze me, the tentacles envelop me.

I am drowned, cast away, I am adrift in the big blue sea without land.

The sun mocks me, I am parody. I am anxiety.

Fear of the unknown and crushing sorrow, the ferryman knows this sea for he lurks beneath and travels the rivers and undercurrents of those unlucky enough to find themselves lost on rogue waves.

Sanity wears thin as I drift along that silent and demanding void.

What lurks beneath those waves, mirrors of my own future for the unknown is just that.

The not knowing is the worst part.

Today was a good day,
I woke up and loaded my gun, going postal is the plan.
No real reason, no real plan, just pick a place and aim for people.

Here’s the school, here’s the office, here’s the steeple, steady hand and aim for people.
Hair trigger and hog wild, going ape but having too much fun to care.
Smile on my face or least on the mask I wore today;
Left the house today with a plan to see the bodies drop by my hand.

It’s as much fun as you can have on a Monday.
Service on the Sunday gets shaken up with I burst down the door, pulled my trigger and watch the bodies hit the floor.
The mall was more fun after I lit up the food court,
The movies were a scream filled with screams from the survivors.
Picture day and everyone is dressed to impress at least they dressed for the funerals.

Today was the plan, just drop as many as I can.
No one to stop my fun, no one saw it coming and as soon as I started I moved on, location, location, location and the hospital is next.

Quick stop at the post office to take it back to where it all began.
Falling down is fun as long as you take everyone with you.
Now some will say I’m crazy, or some will say I lost it or some will say I snapped along the way, but they’re just repressed. I do what they think about.
They would love to blow away the people they complain about on a daily basis.

Just get a gun, get your gun Johnny, get your gun Jenny, get your gun Janie and Tommy’s got his gun.
We can go the park on Saturday and make a field day out of the people swinging on the swings, we can hunt the hunters, we can hunt the sheeple.
Run rabbit run, I’ll give you a ten second head start but I’ll close the distance and soon you’ll be boring, I’ll need a new target.

I need a new mark.

Silence in the library, good thing silencers come in all sizes.
I’m having too much fun to stop, I’m usually bored and pent up, *** was staring to bore me. Work was wearing me down and school was full of drama and **** kids;
I found myself a hobby, something to let off steam.
It doesn’t take much to have this kind of fun, just aim and laugh as you gun em down.

Drive-in movie turns out to be a drive by spray of fun.
Parking lot like fish in a barrel, doing donuts before driving away into the night.
Night club is my next stop and its pack to the brim, dance floor center and work outwards.

Now some will say I’m violent and others will call me a monster but when we speak of expression, which of us is repressed?
I pull a trigger to get rid of stress while you do drugs, cheat on your lover and talk bad about everyone behind their backs, you stress over stress and can’t ever seem to get it to clear;

On the flip I got a smile on my face as I skip through downtown just shooting off at the hip;
Rich, Poor, Black, White, Elderly, Children- no difference to me.
I take aim and just let the bullet travel true and fast.
A shot to the heart really gets me going, I laugh and sprint down the street gotta hide from police now, hide and seek and while I hide in plain sight I take this time to mark some new marks.

I sleep easy at night having blown my stress away, I know you say you don’t like people but let me tell you, you’re being antisocial.
People make life fun and the couple who go out together die hand in hand by the hand holding my gun.

This is my rifle, this is my gun, this isn’t a social experiment and this is for fun.

The nature of faith is to simple believe.
That is faith.
Knowing and believing without solid proof.

Science is based on facts of man and time;
yet man and time change
and science can be improved and changed over time.

Its Faith vs Science
Two sides of the same coin.

In Quantum mechanics they speak of the tenth dimension,
they speak of non locality

In Faith they speak of God and Angels

Both can not be seen, and yet to the followers both exist.

Then they case judgement on the other for their beliefs,
Never stopping to see the irony before them.

Faith vs Science was made by man;
Belief vs Fact, Right vs Wrong, Us vs Them,
Man vs Man.

As if fighting would turn a belief.

Why can't those who have Faith have faith and enjoy it on their own.
The same is said for those who have Science.

Fighting a pointless war, another social trench.

You might've seen me under pool hall lights;
Neon signs and cheap drink nights.

I left my home long ago and now I wander the open road,
Roaming suits me better than falling in line with a proper life.

Now I sleep under the stars, you leave change in my hat-
while I strum my guitar.

I follow the tide and ride the wind, I live on the open road.
When my time is done here just lay me under a tree and let me be.
I've got stories from every state- I've had food from the president's plate.
I've slept in the gutter of the "Show me state" and I've walked along that Golden Gate.

Every town brings a new face-it's often found in mirrors of bars.

Somewhere out there someone loves me;
Somewhere out there someone remembers me-for the life of me I can't remember who that person is.

I make fast money for hard work, I work hard for no pay-
Just because the sun sets doesn't mean it's the end of the day.

Then when I call it quits I grab my guitar and play the songs that my grandfathers sang before me.

Every town brings another name, sometimes I get lucky sometimes I take the blame- all in all it's my lot in life and so I travel this road I'm on with little caution and a switchblade knife.

Find work when I can, eat when I can afford to- always on the move and headed down that lone road, I travel the empty walkways on sidewalks long forgotten by history and time- some call me a ***** while others say vagabond- I just live how I live and see what's around the next bend.

Tough as nails punk rock scream-*******-teen girl.

A real wild child maneater.

LIGHTS! CAMERA! ACTION- Girl.

Small town girl chaos all over the big city- long days and drunk days.

Hazed afternoons on the boardwalk- sublime shirt and a longboard.

Shaved hair and skin tight pants- creepers and two toned ***** dance,
no highschool claptrap dance for our action girl.

She's crazy as the glue she sniffs- she lives on the edge, she built a home on the cliffs.

*****, spunky hard as nails, screwloose downtown headcase.

Action all day, action all night- this girl don't back down from a fight.

We sell em skin, we sell em tanks
We fill out the forms to fill out the ranks.

The new consumer army is on the way.

Jamming into your lane and piling up the stress with more bills and less pay and you'll get no say.

The public gets what the public wants and it's no where close to what we actually need

- but that's the nature of the beast and clearly the beasts knows best.

So we're jamming your day with sound and color, this is not an emergency it's the hourly stress test to see if you breakdown.

Breaking all your hopes and dreams, sizing you up and putting you in place, this isn't real life it's just a holding spot for the eventually deceased.

So pack your bags and bring the family, dine out by the sea and sink knee deep in the sand for the weather's getting better and it's time to bake in that fake spray tan.

We do what we must
In order to survive
Protect your honor
Defend your pride.

And from the dirt I return,
Masked up and on

Dead men tell no tales so I had to reach back into the well with my shovel and bring out the bones of the poets before me who spoke too little, they remain silent heroes with low book sales.

The pen is mightier than the sword, I went Out for Blood and spilled as much of my own as anyone else, the battlefield was littered with bodies and thoughts, ghosts of the unlucky.

We grow or die, adapt or survive. The Jester mask- I wear it with it pride.

This is the resurrection of a thousand dead thinkers who got lost to time,
Some had their work plagiarized, that’s what’s known as a crime.
I ring the bell for who it tolls cast their names on my list, I drink to remember and to forget.

I say a prayer before their names, unmarked talent in a shallow grave.

Bring out your dead because the hacks, fakes and plagiarists need to see some skin before they try to take more flesh again.
They pose art, I recreate crime scenes, they have a new book on the burner cooking, I’ll Hannibal them as I roast them over the open fires of creativity.

You think this is easy?

You want the fashion, fame, money and house?
What about start realistic, one light on, a cup of forty-nine cent Wendy’s chili and a rent check that’s overdue.

While people bleed, sweat and carve their art out, you come along and pick it apart, then take what you want and call it “art”
You’re a hackjob wackjob whose too busy jacking off, I wish artists had a Mafia so you could get Whacked off.

You stole the words right from out of my mouth, I think its time to show all these “artists” what a bleeding heart is all about.
Mel Brooks said “everyone steals, you just have to know what to steal” he didn’t mean ruin someone else by taking their core ideas and sticking your name all over it, it’s soulless ***** like you that make me sick, as I go to cough I let the leash the slip and the hounds rush out to junk the bodies of the soulless majority who make a living off of someone else’s paycheck.

It’s work, it’s real, it takes time, effort, energy and dedication and then you come along and steal, I get it. You want what you can’t have, problem is- you can’t recreate it so you’re a one trick pony with a lame leg who hasn’t got a clue. Your autograph reads “Elmer” because you get turned to glue.

We’re not the polite socialite artists who stand around and blow smoke up each other’s *****, we’re too busy to hang around and wax whimsical, we need to know where our next meal is coming from, you just wanna talk Kafka, flash cash like Hoffa, the Jester is here to show you the way to your coffin.

I Spray Paint the Manifesto in your town.

In the right light I have angels wings and a golden halo, but the mirror behind me shows the devil horns and spiked tail, duality in man hyding in plain sight, I flipped the coin and you lost the toss, now you’re dragged out of sight.
Out of sight and out of mind, the lack of you doesn’t hurt the community, when one hack fades another one takes their place but they all look the same so don’t worry about the continuity.

One million little crosses all in a row
One million little crosses all on a hill

Remember, remember what we fought for.

Remember Remember what we died for.

I remember the smoke and the noise,
The cause seems long lost.

One million little crosses all silent in a row
One million little crosses all silent on a hill.

Look down look down, over the sleeping valley
Look down look down, over the rebuilt city.

No more planes, no more bombs.

Dear Danny Whizbang, you can finally rest.

One million little crosses laid out side by side
One million little crosses just sleeping in the shade.

Dear Danny Whizbang- poor boy.

Remember, remember what we fought for.

I've lost the cause in the fog of war.

War is war and hell is hell but at this point it's so bad I can't tell;
Which is worse for my health, the bullets being fired at me or the poor meal ration.

Remember me back home, call me a hero.

I got a medal pinned on my chest, took seven more through my tactical vest.

Dear ma, pa, friends and pals, tell her I loved her and she was my only gal.

Dear ma, pa, friends and pals, say something nice bout those who don't make it back- I may not survive the next-ATTACK!

Sarge just gave the order, so up and over the top, last one home missed a bullet by a stroke of luck.

One million little lives laid to rest in a field.
One million little lives put to the test.

Pay em your respect, then finally allow them rest.

You've heard the stories, seen the plays.
Felt the love and loss of these stories we sell for pennies everyday.

Romeo and Juliet, young and tragic, bound by blood, a tale as old as time and a reason to care, to cry, to love, to fight for and come back to.

You can sell these stories to tabloid trash on a Friday for the nightly entertainment. You can sell these stories to your family and friends because everyone loves a good underdog story.

I've heard this story before, I've watched it on the silver screen and I often wonder if that'll be me someday. Someday any day, any day but today- or at least she says so.

Carved names on a tree for a hundred years and a hundred years before, the dates speak true and now here as a mark that this story is as old as the trees themselves.

You've lived these stories.

And the rockets red glare meant we were there.

Suits and pants, nice tie chop shop mic talk means blood sands for diamond trade.

And the rockets boom meant cash flow for the body count.

Body count and cop killing, **** the police so said N.W.A

First call for trouble when we're in trouble.

Fear changes us all, no atheists in foxholes.

Foxhole hero, fighting for a country split down the middle- no love for war, no love for peace.

Sorry to see ya go but clearly some had better plans.

Better plans to make a better plan, fail to execute said plans just because of an early execution.

Lethal injection due to a guilt verdict, brutal injunction.

Oh no- here we go again another legal scam, another injustice in a court room, law side manner out of the window again, oh no here it comes again, another broken legal system bringing red tape to justice and perverting the jury to commit another crime on the stand.

Car crash makes us feel so alive, which is why we never let tragedy die. Cop got caught up in a shoot em up, no matter white or wrong, no matter black lives will say it doesn't matter.

Nuisance doesn't exist anymore, no gives anyone the benefit of the doubt anymore. It's us v them, like batman v superman too bad nobody wins and at the end we don't become friends- things like that only happen in the movies.

Hollywood drama starring real people with real lives, so let's add a crew, lights, and staged events to add reality into our T.V. sets because clearly enough of our **** is something we don't get.

I don't know what to do now, or where to go now, all I know is people will go with the flow because it's easier than fighting against the current- events like bad parenting better blame on the animal caged against it's will acting on any instinct it has left.

Beat em into submission since we can't beat our kids, but even spanking them now seems like a confession of sins.

A black night of the soul and we love to move on for effect but we hate to let go- which is why I facebook stalk my ex late at night, when I could just text her and say I hope she's alright.

But Oh no here it comes again gotta act like I don't care so it seems like I can win, keeping up appearances only makes me look older, too bad I'm not getting any bolder. Rather run from life and hide in the shade, school of hard knock life bell just rang.

And if I gotta go, let it be with a BANG!

Some is rich and some is poor and that's a fact you can't change;
Working all day to break your back and give it to the company store.

Now I was told to work smarter not harder, but when you're the smartest one in the welfare line even work horses have to laugh at you.

Now I don't sleep under this bridge for fun;
It keeps me dry when the storms come.

No it won't be the witches that'll burn in this time.
No more black magic found in ramshackle towns.

Ring round the witch, burn her to ash, up into the sky she goes.

No it won't be the witches that'll burn in this time.

No more savage guess work, just savage lies.

Pile on top of rumor and gossip wheel and let the accusations fly.

Bring you torch, bring your sword, bring your bible out back;
we found a threat that we strapped to the rack.

Confess or deny, civil rights and laws don't apply.

Burn the witch for thought, burn the witch for money, burn the witch for ***** face or to claim humility.

But it won't be the witches that'll burn in this time, they'll get shamed in broad daylight for someone elses crime.

You got me caught between a heart and a hard place.

I can't run to you without hurting someone else.
I'm single, what harm could it do?

Now I've got three women all looking at me like I'm taken.

Wined one
Dined two
Literally just talked with the third.

They got me caught between a heart and a hard place.

I was rejected by one- a year go.
I told one I wasn't ready (for a relationship)
The third we're just friends.

But now it's getting awkward and so I'm stuck between a heart and a hard place.

Any choice is gonna hurt, and I've never lied to anyone.

So *******, they got tied me and sinking fast, gotta cut the cord and hope I can catch some air soon.

They put the weight of the world on my shoulders and I was blindsided.

Now I'm in something I didn't even want- it's not that I wasn't clear, it's just that now they all wanted something more and didn't think I was serious.

So now if I back out no matter what- it's gonna hurt someone.

Right now they got me caught between a heart and a hard place.

Dragging me down into the waters of uncertainty and I'm trying to keep above the water line.

There is a long, dark well and at the bottom lies a million words and phrases that have never been said or paired together, it is a wellspring of thought and form, it is a natural deposit of untouched visuals and emotion.

It haunts us as we can only gather bits and pieces and as we carry them to the light of day to express them, sometimes they get lost in transport or they don’t come out right.

We climb down the well and from the sides and bottom we scrape and grab, we collect and mine, we do all we can to harvest the words of which we try and make a living.
We stake a claim and hope its not too close to anyone else’s claim, there no allowances when words are in the mix, theft of thought is theft of a high order.

We sweat, we bleed, we slam our heads and hearts against the well and look up to the sky, but we now we can’t return yet. We cant return until we have our piece, until we have a enough to make the lack of sleep, the lack of food, the lack of interaction worth it.
The take must outway the work, the effort must always be smaller than the reward.

Sometimes that’s easy, sometimes we strike a vein and follow the trail of thought and words until we drain it dry, on those days the work is small compared to the reward, the reverse is that sometimes we will sit in hours and weeks in the word pit, sifting through pebbles and thought trying to salvage something, trying to show something for our efforts.

The word pit has been and always will be, they can be found in every country, in every heart break, in every coming of age, romance, death, tragedy, comedy, in every story or event, every person has a word pit that they can climb into it and all it requires are some proper tools and the right skill set.

Caution for the gas won’t **** you, you needn’t a canary for this pit, however you will need to be mindful of yourself, be aware of your actions and be aware of what you handle and reveal, the power of words has prompted people to take radical action, it has prompted lies and sin, it has prompted fear and envy.

Words have as much power as the induvial would allow them, some inspire, some create, some work and drive because of them, so be mindful of the words and how they are presented;
For when you delve into the word pit, you are no longer just a person with thoughts- you become a person with the power to express those thoughts in such a way that they can far reach the seas and mountain tops- and in that journey, in that power of range, ideas can become so much more.

It starts in the well.

I've been down a little in the wrong side of town.
Somewhere out there that girl still remembers my smile;
I have loved and lost and I have always seen it through.

The stories I tell can be told by any of you, that's not what makes em special. It's what makes them true.

Now the sun gets higher in the sky and the days get warmer and the world keeps spinnin', these are just the way of things.

I have been strungout on the road in bars and under tables.

Left my number in ledgers, left my heart with the girl before you and you'll get to hold it to.

I've never met a woman who I couldn't fall in love with, no matter of five minutes or five years.

My skin is tough, but my back is strong, heart is on my sleeve which is why I always land in trouble.

Always a had a weakness for a cute girl with a killer smile.

So now here I sit at another bar in another town and wonder who I'll be with tonight, it's a question I don't need to ask because I'll never put up a fight. I break the hearts before they break mine, fragile muscles inside a glass case, handle with care, you break it you buy it.

Sadly the truth is neither of us can afford it.

I can let my heart break because it won't end me, it may sting, it may hurt but it won't phase me, it won't affect me as much as you think, I'm just looking for the girl who can heal the pain, who can replace the bottle, who can challenge the sky to take me and make me feel ok.

We do what we must
In order to survive
Protect your honor
Defend your pride

We fight for each other
We stand side by side
No matter the challenge
We shall not run
We will not hide

We were not all born of the same blood
But we are brothers all the same
We respect one another
we honor each others names

We share a coat of arms
Under my protection
You shall not be harmed
For this is my oath.

Waste away someday
Waste away with me
Skeletal dance- in a wasteland in which the sand strips us away.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust or so they say.
What happens when shiny new turns to rust?

So why bother trying, waste away with me.

Waste away someday, we're already wasting away.

The world's most expensive paper shredder.
When we try to market art we must beware of the artists who swim in the dark waters.

We got Banksy'd again- and it was beautiful.

A room of shocked faces and silent groans, fear and disgust filled the room as the well-to-do- watched value turn to art and art into a story.

It's no longer a thing that is, but a thing that was- and was should be the way art is.

Art is a free thing- and yet the artist must sell their art to survive and thrive, yet how can we justify selling the thing we claim to be free, is it only in pretentious tongues?

The value of art is not what it sells for, but more of what it means to the crowd before it.

In for a penny in a for a pound, destroy the value and create something more, bring art back to its roots so that we may admire it for what it is.

"The urge to destroy is also the urge to create"- Banksy- Picasso- Bakunin. "

Parody.
Comedy and tragedy and I forget the point-
I write to express myself and almost got lost in the unknown approval of the past that I have had.

Parody, for I gave in almost too quickly but if I almost gave in- isn't it the same thing?

Chasing fame like a savage dog I nip the heels trying to get a taste of that which I have never known- the lesson is learned.

I am not beyond the ego. I let myself slip and almost forgot the important thing- expressions- I shocked myself.

Humbled again, I'm sure I will forget again.

I write because I have the urge to write, it is not a choice, not a hobby, not a distraction, it's a very real bite that gnaws at me and so I wear its teeth down and quell the noise in my head.

Chasing fame does nothing but block out the real expressions and thus I feel no satisfaction.

The work comes first.

Jack and Jill went up the hill to pop a pack of pills,
Jack went laughing boy and Jill came down after,
Party boy and Party girl drinking the kool-aid.

******* Jill was what she was known as while Jack was Jillin around,these two made a mess and both came down after the other.

They got so high that they came, went and came again.

Jack and Jill went up the hill to pop a pack of pills and ended up blowing their load all over town, left their samples in parkside restrooms, brain sugar and high cavity.

Jack and Jill ****** off in the alley way behind the racist pharmacist, they made a right mess.

Jack got jacked and Jill got off, the come down burns.

Can't think to form the words,
So I slam a dictionary against my head to fill it with words unsaid.

Heartbeat like headache too many distractions to form a thought.

Off the rails and agitated;
Here I go missing the point again.
Here I go trying to create something new again.

A verbal Victor Frankenstein, composite poem here I go again.

The mad wordsmith at thought's end standing on the edge as I stare out to the void on the verge of my next big break point.

Another pointless point that leads to a dead end debate between two parties who'll never admit the other is right, so what's the point of words when they all fall to the floor and shatter.

Sweep them into the dustbin and glue em back together try and lie that this time it'll be stronger.

Penned mosaic on the cutting room floor, too many themes to latch onto, this one was rushed out the door.

It flew to close to the sun and now the wax got in the way and made a mess- so as this writer plummets into writer's block sea at least let me drown along the sea of sentences that have been said by saints and sinners, who shared meals with Twain and Ginsberg.

Better to know I bled on the page and bled myself dry, I gave away all the words I had inside and now I sit thirsting for some inspiration like a poor man's Bukowski, wishing I had half the insight to see the next line and knew it was going to sound right.

They tell you it’s a game and then they toy with you, they say that life is to be taken seriously and they make a joke of you.
They say that this is the way that all life works yet they don’t share the troubles you do.

It’s a savage mockery of a cash-on-hand ruling class that plays make believe with our “opportunities” I’m starting to feel as if they’ve made a fool of me.

They say that life is yours then they occupy your time, they push you for more hours and less pay as if it were sublime and at the end of the day the taxman takes some away, it seems like its all just savage mockery.

We ride the Ferris wheel of change and our ups are always followed by lows and we end where we started, both feet firmly planted on the ground and the fun is suddenly over.
We’re actors and clowns, we’re tightrope walkers and high flyers, dreamers, screamers and make-believers but it’s all an act, it’s a show and we dance for entertainment because once the pretty lights stop we are back on the road, tired, broke and always feeling used.

Exploited.

If only we could change, yet we just don’t know any other way.
This is the way we’ve been told the way that life is since birth and those lucky few who have managed to find a new sideshow to join have found they themselves must answer to the people above them.

It’s savage mockery and it always drips down, so abuse rolls down and we all fall victim to someone.

These are words you said you never wanted to say
Now Wood Would? Would he pity you?
You showed us the sun turn black and you broke from the rusty cage,
Now you're giving the Jesus Christ Pose.
You took the needle to heart- as in right to the vein.
You, Cobain, Staley, Wood, Weiland...all went the same.

Your voice bounces off the walls, star gazer follows suits.
Followed in the footsteps of dead young men too talented to explain.
Drugs and self expression mixed together with fame,
Tragic life end, it's all the same.

We say hello to heaven,
traveling on that interstate while our favorite love song plays.

And all the words left behind, more left unsaid.
The pain of your loved ones and ones you left behind cuts deep and runs long.

Was it worth it?
Could you not break the bonds that held you?
Was chasing the dragon too strong?

Still waters run deep on the river of deceit.
Mad Season like a flu, it ran through us wild
and now you this wilting garden has got me reeling.

If I have a daughter her name is Chloe.
And I'll wear the crown of thrones for her.

So you came as you were, you showed up and lights out!
You were entertainers who entertained.

Burned fast and hot, died too young, same tragic story.

Another tragedy happened today-
Oh lord call the newspaper stand.

Said a young boy became a young man-
in the heat of the summer of sixty-nine
lost in a generation, he simply fell through the gap he ran out of time.

I'd say let's blow this pop-stand but the party is just getting started, so rather than run let's hang around and have some fun.

For if today is the day we all die, you may as well smile rather than cry.

We all got to somewhere sometime, sometimes sooner than later
Sometimes later is right now
Right now I must be moving on
and if you knew what I knew, you'd move right along too.

I'd say goodbye to my old town and my family friends,
I'd say goodbye because it doesn't always have to mean the end.

I stand, unbroken by weather.
Complete I am, I stand still against all, I stand against all.
Unmotivated by money, money I am unmotivated by you.

I stand, stand unbroken by time.
I am unmoved by love, love does not fuel me.

I am complete.
I am completely unbroken.

Unbroken, I am.

The return of the wolf-
Apex predator back on these streets, all these fat little pigs rockin bad words with dusty thoughts- writing loud like their Stephen King elites.
That's a work of fanfiction, you write shallow and brag deep but deep down your soul is only surface level.
I came back to my roots to check up on the place, came back to find a million fake poets tryin to run things like the topics they write cause heat.
You're lukewarm at best and I know you can't think this fast so I won't wait for a reply.
While you're dyin to rhyme I'm dying while trying to produce something new to me.
While you live in your comfort zone and write about the troubles of the world from the safety of your home- you want to impress but don't want to offend, no wonder all your thoughts have been said before by better.
You wanna be down with the street, you wanna be the thinker o the block- problem is you're just a little read writing in this hood.
Out in the deep woods where the words run thick apex thinkers act like scavengers to stay hungry so we don't lose edge.

Pigs get fed, hogs get slaughtered. I'd rather be a truth speaker and free thinker than a fat cat who soul'd out to the biggest fish on the market.

Looking down you cast your gaze on me,

I cast the role on your shoulder and gave you a burden you didn't ask for.

I molded you in my mind to fit what I needed;
I made you a god out of human clay and thus started your legend.

I spent my youth looking up to you;
I wanted to be cool like you,
I case the role on you that was far beyond your reach,
Unattainable were you.

From your own lips you said I should not place you in the clouds.
Now you look down on me as if I drove the nails in.

I gave you my money and put the faith in you,
You couldn't walk on water,
You were too far gone and when you came back you were swimming in addiction.

While I chased your legend, you chased the dragon.

Now we both fell on bended knee,
Rose our hands to the sky and asked for somebody to "save me"

Are freaks electric?
Do they shock you? Do they put a fear into you? Are the oddities that odd in the light of the day?

Are freaks taboo?
Do they deserve they shadow hand? The second hand citizenship of fellow country men? the shun of woman and the mockery of the children?

Are freaks limited?
A rare breed, something fresh and new, something strange and beautiful. Are freaks uncommon to your life? To your world?

Are freaks diseased?
Riddled with the plague? Cursed with disability? Are freaks inhuman?

Are freaks freaks?
If respect is odd, if simply civility has gone, if that is so strange and we are paranoid of one another then mayhaps we are freaks in our own way. Just because the body lacks deformity does not mean the mind does.

Does not mean the spirit or intent does.
The worst freaks look like humans, they learn how to speak like us, to walk, talk and dress like us. All the while the dark intent lies behind the smile and jokes, behind the kind gesture.

Joesph Merrick was not an animal. Ted Bundy was.

Liquid fluid bones


Liquid fluid and my mind melts into the sun- I stared too long.

Pour my out of the bottle and into any glass then swallow me and whole the drain I go.

I go.

No control zone, low flight zone no time to explain.

Pour me out of my bottle and into any glass, swallow me down and away I go.

Flush the fashion, plunge it down the drain there I go.

Away and out of sight, back into the bottle- I am the dregs of night.

Liquid fluid I slide into any container, I can take any shape.

social parasite, societal chameleon.

Flush it away and I flow down the drain, through sinks and pipes, I mix with the rain water and drip from your faucet.

I'm inside you when you took your first drink, then I moved along without you noticing.

Liquid fluid.

The poet's pain is self chosen, at least we believe it to be.

We're all players on the stage, entertainers of the modern era; using words to show the world how we see the world.

You dig deep to express yourself and you give all you can, you can bleed on the stage and give your time.

The only direction we go is with the flow of our hearts on which we abuse to create the art we so aggressively protect.

Had I know then what I know now, I'd take back my words in exchange for experience and patience- in another time I was wiser than I am now because now it's all behind me and not knowing what was in front of me was more of an advantage than learning how to live with what I lost.

Burned out bright;
Faded star on the street-
life in this city got me beat.

No longer the toast of tinsel town,
Yesterday's news like funny guy, sad clown.
Comedy show that is my life, and like the old rule says-
Comedy loves tragedy and welcome to my city.

Save your hand-outs and I don't want you to take my calls,
I don't need your pity.

You live in the meat grinder,
Its tooth and nail, it's blood for blood;
You think we need a reminder?

I lost my nerve when I lost my spot,
I lost my spot when I gave it up for the sunlight,
Now I'm an outcast, cast out along the streets.

Can in hand, its a panhandle life.

You only have so much life to burn,
The hotter you are, the faster you burn-
You are the fuel of the engine and when you lose touch or burn out;
This city will just feed on somebody else.

The year I pen this is two thousand and sixteen.

I sit in a kitchen that badly needs to be refurnished as I drink a whiskey on the rocks. (Always drink Jameson)

I sit here in the summer heat, enjoying this moment ( which if I'm being honest is rare because usually I'm not a fan of the heat) but today for some reason I'm having thoughts of San Francisco- the beat poets, Hunter Thompson, Oakland California right next door and the Black Panther movement of the sixties..California has always been a place for artists and what some would call the "Freak culture." I myself just know it as "home."  

The sparks you could strike seem to have been reduced to small trashcan fires and bonfires on the beach, the love and hate seem to have created a haze of digital indifference. The power of the state seems to have shifted, yet days like these- these hot summer days that turn into beautiful warm summer nights...one can almost understand what it's like to be cast into those golden hills that run through the state.

A place for poets and musicians, a place for artists and life changes, a state that can and will eat you alive and spit you out without care for you after.

The spoils are all around if you're brave enough, clever enough, and just dumb enough to take a risk. We're not talking Vegas risk, we're talking every stone is make or break and if you slip and fall into the river, you'll be bashed against the rocks and your crippled, broken body will be tossed aside.

Yet moments like this- these golden afternoons, the charm of the state is revealed, the beauty and innocent side is shown, the sweet, loving, warm side of California shines through.

The old heads are still in a park chasing the dream of the beaten system, while the twenty-something tech heads bask in the future start-up possibility that this state brings.

One day when the water level rises, when it takes back everything and the Golden Gate sinks, there will be those who will make one last effort to preserve the Californian style...we're sitting on a land of dreams, broken,shattered and new, we're sitting on a land made of gold and dirt.

I think that's the irony and it sums up this- The prize is there, it's under the skin, under the dirt, under the trash, it's gold, pure, raw, ever staying gold.

But only for those with a strong enough will to keep digging.

Shots ring out down the street;
Another family caught in the middle of gun crime.

Middle American gun crime back on the prime-time TV news,
Man, I give up. Grab the guns and have a party!

Fireworks to muzzle flare for the dramatic.
If you got a pistol I got a machine gun.

If my neighbor doesn't return my lawnmower I'll have no choice but to blow him away.

If you got an issue with me say hello to my little friend,
and his next fifty best friends.

If you have a machine gun I have the .50 cal for you.

Yo ** and Giddy-up we got the gun show to go to.

Johnny run and get your gun, you just wanna shoot shoot shoot like its Monday

The rockstar Mark Chapman really played his pistol,
and the rooftop ****** made Texas stand out.

JFK went out with a bang!

Give me silver give me black, give me a Mossberg or a Street Sweeper.

I want to shock my neighborhood with shells.
All my favorite music comes from a World War 2 battlefield.

So you can take my gun from my cold dead hands because I'm not the problem,
guns don't **** people, people **** people.
Drugs don't **** people, addiction does.
People don't hurt people, angry people hurt people.

See! I'm free and clear and if you disagree I got my .50 Cal who agrees with me.

They sold Jesus on the cross with neon letters for flare
I wound up in the gutter when I went searching for answers there.

The poor stay poor or so some say, the rich get rich or some stock markets claim.

I spray paint the Vitruvian Man on a the side of City Hall,
Only to have it removed as vandalism, if we are Rome surely we shall fall.

I lay down in the limelight and perform for the masses,
The show goes on and soon is forgotten, it’s true what they say about absolutes;
Death and Taxes.

I watch the city burn, I may have fanned the fire.
If we are to ash, gather round and celebrate our own makeshift pyre.

The times keep on moving and we’re all trying our best to stay afloat.
The rules keep changing to fit the voices of the few but everyone is something,
With so much difference no wonder we can’t agree.

Sacrifice individuality?

Drive the nails in deeper and cut out their tongues,
The thought crime fits the punishment.
Don’t think- about it.
Don’t- think about it.
Don’t- think about- it.


Sacrifice individuality?

I wrote a personal manifesto in the sands of time, only for the waves to wash it away.
I chiseled a poem in stone only for time and weather to whittle it down,
It was then I learned that nothing lasts forever
I chased time like a hound after a hare,
I killed time for an hour
Then was jailed in a prison for abuse of a metaphor.

I felt the pity of a mother,
The anger of a parent,
I held onto the bars of my cell,
This was the pit and personal pendulum
Torture is best when it’s personalised to make a singular hell.

The halls of Humanity were so brightly lit that I forgot the basement I now explore.
Dim, cold and wet.
The dregs of the past lurk along the catacomb walls,
The rats chatter in the shadows, they sound like mocking laughter.

I travel through the cellars of time, history gone by.
The records are scrolled on papyrus,
The cave paintings show how life once was,
The broken weapons of armies old, litter boxes and tombs of kings and leaders,
All their stories and lives have been told.
Grave robbers snuck in under the cover of darkness, left what couldn't be moved
The rest has been sold.

Sould out, which is why I feel empty, staring at what remains and what may be of our current history.

We’re on a timetable of power, and it’s shifting ever faster.

Never aware of the dangers of yesteryear, so we work and build tomorrow today
Because by the time tomorrow is today, we’ve already outdated it.

I wander these cold Halls of Humanity,
Far below the current.
I rifle through the scar tissue,
I sing to the skulls,
I drink wine with the poet ghosts.
I hear the secrets that they hold.

Every night I burn for you
In an alley or hobo bonfire, I arise from the flames to keep you warm.

Every night I follow you to protect you from the things you can not see.
The things you do not know.

For every night with every lighter spark or hobo fire I burn for you.

Too destructive to touch you, I'd not risk causing you harm.
I work in my own way to be close to you.

Every night I paint your picture to gaze on you as my heart cries for you.

Then I turn to ash and follow you by every match strike or hobo fire.

Every bonfire I am there to watch over you.

My warmth will fight the cold off, my light will hold back the dark and I will consume the growth so that greener grass can grow for you.

Every night I paint your picture, then turn to ash when I go to touch you.

So I stick to my fire and flames, I'll fight for you I'll protect you and when the sun rises I am extinguished until you need me again.

When they find my home they'll find a painting of you and a pile of ash, you'll know I was here and you'll be sad you missed me because you remember the last time I kissed you.

Daughter of mine, I was not around then, so I must be around now in my own way.

A baby cried out across the still night.

They beat you down- threw you in that cell- beat you near death gave you hell.

No light that wasn't theirs to make.

Moonlight kissed you through barred windows.

All you could was bleed and plead innocence.

If it don't make dollars it don't make sense and you're talk was cheap here.

The food only made you hungrier.

The water only added to your thirst.

You couldn't cry out, you couldn't fight back- you just lay on the floor and wait for the hours to pass.

Pass day by day, angels weep above as even the devil won't sign your name on the line.

Hard time makes hard people but you stayed true.

They can take your life, they can take your food, they can take your freedom, they can seal you in the dark, they can break the body, snap the mind, the screams echo all the walls- you can only hear it. They can do everything but they can't break your spirit.

I stole these words right from the poet's handbook.
All these feelings I feel can be found in Shakespearean work.

The thoughts I think can be heard from future seeing comedians of the social kind.  

What is new if it's all old hat to me?
I'm not being creative- merely skipping across stones laid by cerebral terrorists who came before me.

A dangerous idea- recited through a ghetto blaster megaphone, an artistic threat dripping in red spray paint, a post beat poem throne made of wine bottles and past society memories.

I'm stealing the work right out from under you, I'm playing make believe with art like it's something new.

The verbal thief
A penned cat burglar
I'm stealing the words of poets before me, posing as a priest to hear confessions that I'll later wear as my own sins to help forge a new book.

Best seller highwayman.

Stand and deliver- your stories and your life.

Thought process plagiarizer, reshaping forgotten words and bringing back into the modern eye.

Sing for me child,
retell the tales you've heard.

Kiss and told whipsers behind closed doors and hushed voices.

On the lips of love slipped the idea of betrayal.

No ringing of the bells tonight;
no praying for the royal blood to be split tonight.

I've got blood on my mind and a knife in my hand,
The queen drank her death at the feast;
now I come from the king-rid the country of the fatted beast.

Let the halls run with blood, may it flow down the stairs.

Sedition.
Tradition.

When one royal bloodline fails it's people- the people strike back.

Attack.

No more ringing bells for the prince and his sister.

We've silenced the guards, dead where they stood.

The first minister sleeps forever- hung by his hood.

Innocent blood- there is none here tonight.

What would you die for?
The perfect war?
The end result of peace once the blood shed stops?

What would you live for?
Tomorrow, if you knew tomorrow was a long way away?

Living a life walking on glass makes you tread carefully,
The glass ceiling has cracks that begin to form;
Spiderweb tracks caused by the weight of sobering thoughts.

Would you die for the perfect day?
Would you sacrifice for tomorrow if you knew tomorrow was a long way away.

Would you give all you are now so that futures you'll never see would thrive?

What would you die for?
What would you stand for?

Spent a year walking in someone's shoes
Only to have forgotten who you were before the journey even started.

Homeward bound and out again, watching the world pass you by.

The crime rate keeps moving as the nation teeters on the verge of social change.

Where do you stand?

How do you fight?

Would you die if you knew the future would be secured?
Are you selfless in death?
Are you more than yourself, can you muster the courage to move beyond?

What would you die for?

Are you the martyr of today?

What would you stand for?
Where is the line that you draw?

Would you die, if you knew tomorrow would be bright?

Would you die for the perfect war?

Would you live for the way things are now?

Well  I grew up in a right small town
I was raised under that warm southern sun
I worked all day till my work was done

now tell me truthful people- have ya ever seen a hardworking sweat?

I used to fish in the creek behind my house
I used to hunt in the woods out back
Then one day I took the hand of the sheriff's daughter

now tell me truthful people-have ya ever heard a story as simple as mine?

Long summer days and hot summer nights
But my girl by my side made it all right
so here I sit with my Banjo at my side and her, the girl I love bout to be my bride.

now tell me truthful people-have ya ever seen a man as happy as I am?

Now I remember the once that pa used to say
Work hard and earn your pay
and when the day is done you'll find a good woman and a bed to lay.

now tell truthful people- ain't it funny when yer folks is right?

So I can sing a ditty
I can whistle all day
But nothing makes me happier than the girl at my side.

Now tell truthful people- when a simple man does all he can and wants for nothing more than the world out is backdoor, can ya find a happier man than me under the sun?

Little bit of bitter then add the sweet to take the sting away,
Life is, and no spoonful of medicine can lessen it;
Mary Poppins pills to make the pain go away now.

Self medicate and try to keep it down;
Barbie and Ken, with detachable black eye and whiskey bottle.

Another household horrorshow right outside my window but if it's not on the media, how can I tweet at ya, to show you how much I care and how much I support the police at least until it's the hounds released at me.

More bad news and the death rate increases but by a show of support I can get my heart rate down to walk by my ex;  jealous with his new "*****" or so I call her.

This is the new addiction, we're all showing we to care to care and an equal sign that means peace,
safety pin it to our shirts to show we're there.

The only safety I need is on my gun, now I got a box for my son because he shot his mother in the head, I should've stressed gun safety to him, he'll get the hang of it when he starts school next year. Now the boy is a soldier, fighting for peace, some love him, some hate him. I just want him alive, but if he dies, he'll die like a hero and if he washes out early- I have no son.

Intent doesn't matter, only actions show character. That's what I call a disgrace, which is why I wear a mask, to show my true face. Hiding in plain sight is the best kind of disguise, but you can tell a storied life from the depth of my eyes.

So Mary Poppins pills and it's just the way, a little bit of salt and sugar to start my day.

"I stare out of this blasted window to see the city and hear it's wretched heartbeat.

What would you have me do? Not pull the very soul out of the dirt and muck that fills the caps between paving stones?

That is what you do! You add to the muck, to the noise, the sound, the horror in life that people seem so hellbent on creating for themselves!

I toil away and waste away as the sounds wreak havoc in my mind! You ask for silence, yet I have never known the meaning of the word!
I have mimicked the voice of Angels with my violin,
I have caused Satan himself to tremble at my horns;
I am the very bridge between human soul and the almighty!

I cannot rest until this music is out of me,
I cannot sleep until I have purged myself and shown you all what noises I hear!

Even now by the look on your face, you seem timid; like that of a rabbit.

I assure you rabbit, I am the wolf.

I can shake this residence to the ground with the noises in my head.

The beauty and divine, the dirt and grime of humanity.

You seek shelter from the storm? I AM THE STORM!

I have not slept once since the age of youth,
Haunted by these tones and sounds;
They are my gifted curse, for you see I must create in order to find peace;
Which only becomes replaced by another piece!  

Let the coffee go cold, **** your eyes and your placid mind,
Go about and do whatever it is you do!
Pester me no more with your simple understandings!

I am creating things you can only dream of;
To you they are the Absinthe Dream.
To me, they are divinity channeled down from the high heavens and low hells.

I will bring forth the sounds of the soul and force them on you.

So no, I don't care for a walk, nor female company. Let the food rot.
Pester me no longer,
Rejoin the grime and muck from which you came;
For while you create ****,
I bleed fame!"

Laid to Rest



Finger on the trigger, hand on the pen.
The romantic say words are stronger, sword is weaker then.
I felt like I’ve been laid to rest sleeping in my artistic grave, chipping away at stories and poems because the urge to create is back, I came from the Cali now I’m southbound and down but this desire to ****** a page got me feeling like Wes Craven- satisfy the
Rage.

Stephen King wrote that and what a tragedy it came true too many times to be fiction, may as well be taken like dictation, how many more shootings can happen during a pandemic?

It’s enough to make me sick, enough to drive me to the edge to drink, stomach sick, heartbroken, ***** in the sink.
On the brink of society based depression, aggression up, suppression up, but the pressure keeps locking me up, draining my energy so all I’ve got to do is sleep deep and hope that tomorrow we get some sanity back.

Books hardly sell, like a doomsday preacher, street sign apocalyptic prophet I stand in the town square and yell.

Bullet based precision, but I spray like an AK, the finer points I use a ballpoint ****** rifle so I can pin the point I’m making and then I throw your bloodhound comprehension off track with a reference, so I move from A to B then loop around and connect the dots, you’ve seen it before when I leave these fanfiction writers in chalk.
Chalkboard like I take em to class, call me the Professor cause I’m giving out F’s.

I feel like I’ve been laid to rest to early, but I only laid down to recharge my batteries and the years flew by without me working, I was burnt out of thought, now the gears are turning.

I wrote six books in two years, released five, then repelled three. Now I’m working on two more with plans to republish and release all of them. Plus, I fell out with friend and in love with a former stranger, I lived through the ongoing pandemic plus a freak snowstorm, now I’m back to the grind, climbing out of the grave to soldier down in the social trench, this battle is on, meanwhile you’re still stuck on title page one.

I gave you all the tools to work, told you how to sit down and motivate and self-publish, you sat around and waited for me to show up again, superman- I know when I’m needed.

A writer writes. Take notes class because once again I’ll wade through dark and deep waters to show you how again.

Mr. Masked man is back, the boogeyman of the page, the masked anti hero who writes as much as he raves, and I don’t chug whiskey anymore, now I sip and take my time to enjoy the finer things in life, but I still got these wolf teeth and a savage bite, predator of the poem, 87 skin you alive.

Headhunter, spine collector, trophy killer, broken *** writer with the addiction to fill pages with words until it reads like the dictionary drunk off punk rock and Beethoven- blurred.

And the world looks so different
The faces, places, people go and we’re all just marching in toe, but that’s just part of the show.
The stagehands, directors and actors know that the play is a mockery of what we do in daily life, just to distract from the strife.
but that’s not always the wisest option.
So, we take our seats and silence our phones, the house light drops down low and Heaven above mocks Hell below but this is just daily life with no flash or show;
So, we wear our masks and costumes to give the beauty of illusion and as we grow we learn to lie, we learn to hide the truth and dignity gets sacrificed which is why our children can’t learn from our mistakes.
And people asked where were you when the fell apart, as if you should have the answer that would satisfy; I was hiding in plain sight but that isn’t good enough for you.
Where were you the day that it happened and tragedy struck or was it just coincidence that you were nowhere to be seen; perhaps you were hiding too. So, the players have their parts and the tragic stage is set and once our play starts we’ll be torn apart by mutual love of criticism and with nothing to fall back on we merely fade away; the true death of showmanship.

I kick rocks while I wear docs
I stay ahead of Stepford & mediocrity;
I get drunk because of sobering thoughts while Americana judges me.

I go against the grain, not to be edgy but because it feels natural to me.
They say I can't fit in with society and if so-
society can *******.