Write words, curse and chase the hearse
Swerve, first, into oncoming traffic
And see which way my head goes when it hits the pavement.
Maybe that's why I got a bike instead of car,
Har-de-har-har.
I'm ****** up but lately it's just the chemicals in my head,
Not really any fresh ****.
I don't know if that's refreshing, or just ******* deafening,
But I'm really doing better than ever before,
Yet some things never change and I still feel like a *****.
Nevermore, the show must go on,
So how about a pyrotechnic display.
We'll just call it an accident when my career burns to the ground.
But *******, it's really hard to focus lately and not sure I even want to.
Do I want you?
Do I want to...
Hide away in some getaway and get on the way to a family and show and tell what knowledge fell into my lap,
maybe even a goat or two and a world of ******* beauty.
Or maybe I'll stay left askew, questioning you and tearing everything you love asunder, drowning it under entitlement and **** fits and another hit - literal and figurative.
But that really doesn't feel like me, so this isn't really a coin flip, a dichotomy or anything but a fantasy.
Though that's all words ever really are; from being hit with a car to smoking joints under sparkling stars.
Whether figurative or literal, they only exist in your head.
So take them to bed, wake up and seek something physical and animal,
While you're at it smoke a bowl or two,
We'll cut and rip and slaughter, too,
Only in the games we bother to,
Then go and make some art and *****,
Learn to pick apart our problems, too
And in the end, open hearts;
through, through.