I like to write when drunk and high,
that's when emotions run.
Sometimes I even find it nice,
to set ink when I get spun.
Alcohol is lubrication,
when my thoughts are just too bound.
The ******* see's acceleration,
words just flow when I get wound.
I'm  not an addict or a shmuck,
I'm a pretty simple man.
Just one who's more than down on luck;
my whole life has strayed from plans.
Yes I'm often found inebriated,
I hope you'll excuse the current condition.
It just seems to me while obviated,
I adopt a cleaner disposition.

I know,
ten dollar bottles of whiskey
and cartons of Marlboros,
are certainly a way to accelerate my untimely demise.
But women,
now that'll be the death of me.
Underneath the drunken stupor
behind the walls of smoke;
I'm fragile as any fabric.
I can only be cut and sewn so many times...
Alas,
as with all my vices;
the whiskey,
the drugs,
the cigarettes,
I'll dive head first into the next one.
Give it my all.
Take it or leave it,
you'll have the best and worst of me.
And when you leave it,
I'll sew myself back together,
just one more time...
And it'll be on to the next one,
until I die.

If you think world peace is realistic,
you are a ******* idiot.
All the bright eyes and optimism,
I'm getting pretty sick of it.
No, it's not that I don't want it.
It's such a lovely thought.
I just know that evil in this world exists,
People full of madness;
malice, hate,
and rot.
You can stop the useless chanting,
go and tear up all your signs.
And if you can't quite shake the hope,
remember,
children die.

I preach peace and reason while I'm loading my guns.

A series of flashing lights simulate a reality that no longer extends farther than the boundary of your back door.
You sit complacently in your living room while the world outside your window turns to ash and the re-constituted chemical pastes you eat as food slowly transform your body from flesh to a synthetic meat by-product.
I am more preservative than man
Your perpetuated existence is a lie. Maybe once the plugs pulled those incessantly firing neurons will catch up to what's already done and stop.  You've been decomposing for years but haven't lived enough to ******* notice.
That's it folks,
the show's over.

I grew up living by the law of escalation.
There were no holds barred,
very little hesitation.
I wasn't physically imposing
but I fought
like a ******* savage.
Winning doesn't matter
when you're just plain mean.
I got my satisfaction
from making boys bleed.
We progressed,
fist fights hastily became grave.
People started swinging everything from rocks
to blades.
I escaped,
joked it was my "retirement."
And yea I've stopped the violence,
let go of some hate.
But I still carry knives to this day,
just in case.

I never thought,
I'd live for very long.
As long as I can remember
every instinct I possess,
has screamed of impending death.
I had accepted that,
lived in kind.
As I sit here,
only twenty-two years into this catastrophe,
called life.
I feel ******* ancient.
Something went amiss.
Now I'm forced to watch,
as days fly by me
wasted.
I had nothing in the works,
for this.
I'd prepared for every eventuality,
except the one,
where life went on too long.