It's a blessing being lazy
cause sometimes it can make you go ******* crazy;
My world is spinning all about me
I don't care enough, no matter how ******.
It'll always be that way, anyway, so why bother making time to rhyme
Thinking it's ******* sublime
Man, what am I doing with myself anyway?

It seems we’re the only people lett in this world,
Everyone else left their life to unfurl.
They walk around no better than zombies,
caught up in the so-called “real world”.
They can’t even go diving with their *******
deep in some broad named Millie
from late high school;
But that was when rockabilly was actually a thing.
Now, us young people have a choice,
we can be the same or use our voice,
to speak up when nobody else will,
to rejoice
in the opportunities we have now.

Will you die like the rest?

The revolution will be televised,
people flooding the streets, the skies.
All who oppose will be demised,
critisized,
antagonized.
Those who carry on will be prized.
And so the cycle continues, generation after generation.
It’s hard to tell what mutation will come to fruition,
but the fact of the matter is that it’ll be just as superficial as the last.
Nobody wants to be different, do they?

Every time I look into this site,
it’s like a piece of my soul stares back.
Right now it’s all just so black.
But seeing that, it gives me hope
that someday I’ll learn to cope
or maybe, just break free altogether
and fall lighter than a feather.
But for now, I stay here
trying to become the next Shakespeare.
I doubt if I’ll make it
but i know the trip will be worth it.

When someone does something to you,
leaves you hanging onto an emotional ledge,
some can’t help but say adieu,
forgo their old friendly pledge.
And when they come crawling out,
Call on you for help,
tell me, is it a crime to keep them falling
if they refused your whelp?
And you can go call me an *******,
cause, honestly, you’re right.
But when you’re not in control
Don’t come crying when they fly like a kite.

You don’t know me.
I don’t know you.
We’ll never know eachother.
But at least we can take solace in sharing thoughts and feelings
Through text on a digital screen,
Swapping stories, ideas, emotions.
You don’t know me.
I don’t know you.
And that’s the way I like it.
I’m alone, here together with you.

Come now, let’s go
If not today then tommorow
Lest we say here in solemn sorrow.

Come on, then, let’s go.
Forget the churches, forget the schools
We live and love according to our own rule.

If it means the death of us,
then we’ll go out without a fuss.
Because to live solitarily
In comparison to tyranny
Is worth every cent of currency.

It’s rolled up sleeves.
It’s cut up knees.
It’s worrying to those who don’t understand it,
but, then again it’s not giving a ****.
It’s a spark of hope
almost lost in a sea of dread.
It’s not something many understand,
and in earnest a bit thickheaded.
It’s the feeling of being young, of getting caught up in fleeting games of love and lust before settling down for a drink or two.
It’s rebellion, really.

Acres of precariously cut trees line the pavement, made exactly to order, created for dollars and thin-headed minds. They aren’t how they’re mean’t to be now, are they? They’re dead, and serve no purpose other than boosting property value.
Then there’s the trees in the park; they’re alright. A bit more real, for sure, but not the same. Still the masters of dictation by designers with no appreciation for nature’s flow. Most are almost a carbon copy of the stereotype; circle or triangular shaped heads, with a smooth round tail connecting to the surface.
When you come to a small town, don’t expect those types of things. Don’t look for the thin lines, smooth bark, and neatly trimmed leaves. They have no emotion, describe no feeling.
What does?
Trees, made more as thick sticks than anything. Trees bare of all their leaves, minus the stubborn few who resist the tides of winter. Their flesh is mangled and *****, a testament to nature itself. The smell, the sight, it all captures a distinct feeling you will never get from the ******* in Central Park.

My family, they used to sit me down
and tell me stories of those who rebelled back then.
And I ain’t no communist, not any furry,
but it’s been a while since I was ten.
The stories have stopped,
swapped for stricter rules of what i should opt for.
My father used to be a musician,
and it was his childhood dream.
But he retired from it once he turned what must have been fifty-five years.
He forgot the gleam,
the shine of hope.
And maybe it’s just naiveté,
but I believe there’s more to life
than just unpaid debt.

Inspiration is strange.
It will happen anywhere,
be it the john,
out shopping,
in class,
or among friends.
And it's a real ***** too,
because once the seed is planted
it will do nothing but grow;
you cannot think, move, focus on anything else but the idea.
But,
that idea is a part of you,
and without it you will die.