He looks like the type
To mock religion
For the soul purpose of getting under your skin,
Chasing his dream from what I remember you telling me
While I expect nothing at this point in life
And am still let down by everything,
Mainly myself obviously
Maybe with my ability
To predict makeshift prophecy's
I could move to California,
Become the modern day Charles Manson
Minus the murdering,
I cry over almost hitting an animal in the road
And the followers?
Akin to Helen Keller,
The inability to realize I am physically nothing
To be obsessed over and they don't comprehend
The complete ******* I spew from my mouth
About connections and ideas.
Even with the followers,
Your stamped-over question mark existence
Would still be boiling water in my vains,
Insects in my muscles,
A riddle in my head,
Confusion in my heart
Does it excite you to be everything you despised about school?
Does it still bring satisfaction to know
You have the ability to turn tables better than anyone
And years later still have me on my toes
With no solid proof of who you are?