My mind is playing tricks
flipping into reverse,
all is static,
I'm frantically sadistic.
I'm on the grind,
shit's grinding my gears,
you say my name like it's sounds I made up
even in our sheets we're fucked up.
The rat race isn't a race,
but a triathlon
we aren't athletes,
we're just dragging our feet along,
no ping to life's pong,
this is a poem
'cause I can't write songs.