Genuinely heartbroken
From a passing triviality
To be forgotten,
And passed over
Like prestige in frame

Billy had an ingrown hair
That covered most of his temple
Tried to pluck it, being gentle
Caused swelling in a gland to flare

Bulging pustule pinned up next to his eye
The attraction’s leading folks to stare
He knows he shouldn’t care
But pin in hand he lets off a battle cry

Goes to war with a sharpened stick
Alignments balance best to beware
Pushed too far, a ****** affair
Left without motion after that one little *****

Billy once had an ingrown hair
Placed right over his temple
Tried to pop it without being gentle
Flawless complexion as he drools from a chair

I had visions, wasn’t in them
They’re reflected into the mirror
Absence couldn’t be clearer
There’s nothing left inside of me

Fingertips have memories
Sightless, jaunting above my body
And then they feel a little bit naughty
I run it up the flagpole and see,
Who salutes, but no one’s ever does

I’m not sick, but I’m not well
And I’m so hot, cause I’m in Hell

Went through the roof and found
That only stupid people are breeding
The cretins cloning and feeding
And I’m not even watching T.V

Absent minded upward in the place of nerves
Something wrong about me
Starting to seem a bit crazy
They cut off my limbs and now I’m an amputee, ******* you

I’m not sick, but I’m not well
And I’m so hot, cause I’m in Hell
I’m not sick, but I’m not well
And it was a sin, to live so well

Torn blow the covers of ‘zines
Ripped in the cogs of machines
Forced to hold my tongue
It doesn’t hurt, it feels fine
Precariously sublime
I’d like to turn back time
And **** my mind
You **** my mind, mind

Paranoia, Paranoia
Everybody’s coming to get me
They are all pulling at me
I’m running underground with the moles, digging holes
I hear their voices in my head
I swear to god it sounds like they’re snoring
But if you’re bored, then you’re boring
The agony and the irony; they’re killing me

I’m not sick, but I’m not well
And I’m so hot, cause I’m in Hell
I’m not sick, but I’m not well
And it was a sin, to live so well
One, two, three, four

Smacked down, in a beat-down.
Agreed to on principle.
Wet nose and numb toes.
Drowned out in principle.

Her lipstick blossomed against this, particular, shade of white.
It dimmed, as the filter thickened with a yellow stain.
Halfway down the bridge, held the implements saving her sight.
Lost in a back alley while feeling contrite
Privileged enough, still avoiding a handouts gain
Easy enough, held at her beauty’s height.
Unresolved, and drenched in self-imposed pain.
T-shirt’s ripped and garnished in disdain

Caught up with mystics and the art of transference.
Eye line clotted in an ever-thickening paste of black.
Standing upright on borrowed self-assurance
Using a bodyguard as a cocktail for hollow insurance.
Always a rotational position, pulled from the stack.
No more than a figure head to represent deterrence.
Tripped on a bed-rock buried in the track.
Wound up addicted her first time on crack.

Rent paid, toying with dewey decimals. Expense made, avoiding the forced confessional.

Skimmed milk, drunk up from a skinned ***, begged for in a time of need. Curdled for cheap cheese, worked over by skilled feet, reneged for the sake of greed.

Licking spit skeptically off a boot-wiped floor for the worth of a dime. Picking grit hectically in a moot-like chore, covered in grime.

Flick’n flash beat against the permeable door, social media made aware that you’re poor.

Moth and flame play the poor man’s vice, retreat handed out for a bag of rice. Told to go and play nice, life revoked if mistaken just thrice.

Livelihood donated through public tax, all to afford a home infested by rats. Hospital trips noted by fat-cats, looking to assimilate this case with their stats.

Infection corrodes every ****** cut. Distinction acknowledges a momentary rut.

Rent paid, thanks to forced confessional. Expense made, up-scale digs coined on a dime termed parental.

Took a trip on the Belafonte,
Bound with Cuba to forgotten Sanz.
Dinning on tin canned Del Monte,
A glass of Suntory always in hands.

Lloyd Faversham gifted salacious devices by John Cleese.
Used as props in Mike’s next gin stained showpiece.

The drum-line seemed irksome to J. Jonah.
He’d heard Zach Hill before.
Given limited time, despite the persona.
Interstellar fault found in a **** metaphor.

A swift change to an even more marketable sound.
Sparks didn’t fly when trying to appear profound.

Tiny teen dreams tending to tiny skirts.
Fidgeting with the hem-line.
Their just unintelligible flirts.
Stripping to avoid the breadline.

Dystopian fiction led to dissolution of fact
Can’t seem to see their world isn’t intact.

Atwood to Collins, Collins to a stupid ******* maze.
Alternate choice being a criminal thrill.
Simplistic fantasy whose only benefit is praise.
Popular opinion seems to be well over the hill.