the stars were candy wallpaper
with my big head rolling through your hills
the moon
was a vanilla wafer
it cut my tongue and i grimaced with sugared blood

sometimes you only understand me
with fistfuls of hills and these twirling stars of Van Gogh

and sometimes,
i know better.

but i rarely let go...

sometimes my brain runs a deficit on leg muscle tissue
and my heels kick up dust past the brush in the night
and i wander the city alone at night
and i feel dumb but i'm sure i'm alive

then the trees listen to me jabber on about the government
and i whisk past the bushes on my bike, i might
stop to roll up a dutch.

slam verse
is an alcoholic's paint splattered canvas
you could torch it all too easily
but it's there, the prized possession
and hanging
of art collectors around the world,
god rest his soul.

the direction of the paint
to the surface
was sincere and inevitable,
a sure thing of time
and a frustrated effort
indeed.

but there's just something so
****** up
about that,
that it hangs in a museum
and you guard it with your life

your misdeeds are noted.

a miscreant strife.