Everyone sat
criss-cross-applesauce
in our hearts.
Perfume is made
with dead things, right?

I try hard to sound
important,
when I write *******
because
there are bodies
reading this *******.

And bodies grow and wither.
They thrive and survive.
They get married
and die alone.
They die.

To become dead.

Perfume is made
with dead things, right?

What do you feel when you jot down that stark syntax
Do you feel full in your stomach of pretentious factions
Building your philosophy with Lincoln logs and political tactics
What a young poet feels when he's unsure of what his feelings mean and what to write in between those brackets
Laying to rest past selves in a row of six feet deep holes lined with caskets

Sometimes the words we write have more meaning than we put to them
Funny how a letter or a word can make a difference in self
Life can be like reading a book and putting it back on the shelf
Or the shelf gnome right next to it that stares back but doesn't
You give false meaning when you don't know how to feel
That's why the best poems are rewritten and not written
That why I'm on top of this world,

and im flying, not sitting

I'm guilty of admiring my works and not others, that's what's silly about my self compassion dance
When the only thing I've got left is the narcissistic klaxon that my self-righteous ambulance horn trances

If it's killing me, Bukowski would be proud, because he loved his liquor, but he loved killing himself more
He'd say, "**** your religion! Pour this! This will bring you closer to God!"
It's hard for an atheist to swallow, and to dabble in the tasting of sin,
But Jesus was famous for turning water into wine, with no grapes mashed or thinned

The shield of amaretto is strong and smooth
You can put your cruise control on if you feel amused and soothed
But in darker times it will make your feeling woozy and moved
But **** does it make you feel more like yourself
The you'est you can be, with impeccable speech craft and gentlemanly muse
Helps you pay the dues that you have abused in your passive seasonal attitudes

So what say ye Devine for thou'est darkest temptations, when you've created your own demons, hells, and abrasions
Seems like you're the one holding the power ***** of creation
Ye 'ol Devine *******

Time to concoct something the doctors can't counter
Callous my temper with imitation, an elation that makes an earthquake feel a bit sounder
If I told you I was a chameleon you would think I'm a laughing sensation
Like a small town crowd of people with personalities no deeper than flounder
But if you hit me I temper like brass in a manner of class saturation, trying to become a metal that cannot be bent or shaken by voices that are louder

Your mirror's can't see me, only you
I copy and pasted your binary in my caffeine induced computer architect blues
If I told you the color of envy was green, would you see right through my chameleon mirage tailored J. Crew

My scales aren't slimy, although you'd figure so by the way I march around in the conviction of my intelligent muse
I'm so perfect in being perfect, it's almost a clue

But paint me another color of your choosing, to mask the mask I'm wearing over my bruising
You wouldn't know what I scream behind all that I'm hiding because it's sealed under all of the mumbles of my crying

I'm calling your faintest noticeable attraction to grow to know my horrendous transaction interactions
When you sit in your desk chair with your tobacco relaxion, judging every crescendo of my orchestra tastes and core reactions

What say you demon for your jailing taxes, and your horns and your perfect brand named wood stained glasses?
Your cuff is off, your deliverance remarkable, you're becoming a ******* classic just by the stale look that your grin passes
Im not ready for aerobics, I'm not elastic, most will tell you if you try bending me into fantastic, I'm not very static
That's why imitation is suicide when you're not dynamic, looking down the barrel of a factory stack of envy plastics

I wish running away was an option
But I don't even have a car
All of my studies and every job just makes me feel more here when I want to be there
Wish I could fly away when I haven't even earned my wings yet, everything just feels sub par

Boss told me the other day that she's been around since the 90's
She told me to get out of here
I told her I don't have enough time

In between all the chaos
I try to use every minute to the fullest, but the hands on the clock don't want to high five
They just look back at me like I'm not even alive
Maybe sticking around here is at my intuitions cost, maybe more than the cost of my tuition
I'm just ivory in a sack of skin, play me like a piano you just bought
Cause otherwise I'm just gonna sit in this corner of town to rot

Felt like I've known for a while that the cracks in these streets have grown to wide
Tired of looking through a microscope
Stars and galaxies forming before we see them
Don't need to know the future to know they'll still be molecules and isotopes
There's some divine finger pointing the way I should go, what's looking me in the face, toe to toe just telling me to go, to go
Call me Lucifer because if I keep bowing down this'll be my fall
I've got free will but the world looks so **** tall