Sometimes my identity,
Feels like my enemy,
A charred carcass of the artist with Bohemian symmetry,
It feels like my brain leaks from my ears,
When anxiety has poked holes,
My nauseous kicks gears,
But in the sky,
I study these black helicopters circling ,
A merchant clergy demigod machine that can grant me serendipity,
Am I that peanut gallery displaying a wickedness grimace?
At the show where the iceberg never sunk relationships?
I'm just poorly cataloged,
And I'm here with a lion in Oz curse,
Dispersed into realms where courage is brought in a hearse,
Now let me wish these helicopters,
Were an implied gesture,
Mankind and nature divorced in court,
That's why I'm messed up,
So to the wings of machine mystique please come true,
I am desolated greatness on the apocalyptic ground below you,