Sometimes I feel the ceiling falling,
but that's just peripherals hauling shadows and crows calling from fallows.
Reality isn't changing, only my perception falling down,
aging and growing wicked angry and spiteful just 'cause I let it,
spitting lines of depression and hostile succession,
holding onto negative lessons,
refuting positive progression at the expense of intense spiritual expansion,
shunning the silver lining,
running too scared for shining sun to brighten the mood,
lighten the load, smooth the road,
crack the code of the looming clouds of the crowded skyline out the small window of the attic,
where I go to feed the addict and think about how my time would be better spent
playing roulette with russians and using automatics,
crack crack,
future's silent.

That's not really me, couldn't be, quietly pondering failures of loathing and perpetual black
clothing hiding scars of bygones instead of healing, sealing the skin like new, forging a
better view, starting to get a clue.

It's time for a change.