You creatures used to be alive,
Now you're just desks with pulses.
You preachers used to breathe lies,
Now the air just smells repulsive.

Let's toast to our compulsions!
A third-finger salute to ill-indulgence, burnt out lights, and shame convulsions.
Leave the worries to the workers and the fearful.
Let the smiles stretch further while the room's erupting by the earful.

Sub-tyrannic suburban boredom brushes with death.
Sunk Titanic bourbon lushes bearing fermented breath.
Replica. Replica. Replica.
Fried Pickles and Angelica...haha.
Laughter via Helvetica.

A Doctor of Yesterday living in a pseudo-science fiction age.
What will be found between scribbled shore and shining sea?
An empty box filled with smoke and broken mirrors may be a shattered trick on  stage,
But does that mean that progress is solely based on me?

The stage is setting. The studios offer their warm embrace in exchange for a piece of yourself.
A piece, without, you are still a whole. A piece that is meant to be harvested, for if not it will wither and wilt.
Dropping, coasting, floating.
Anything but falling. An idea left un-reaped will be purged by slithering guilt.

The world warps and billows to conform to the view of the looking glass, yet, stretches far beyond it.
Letting go doesn't mean giving up, but rather, to allow the wind to blow and twist your perspective.
The harder you try, the more you will see: It's all a lot easier to swallow when you're not being force-fed ****.
A fine cocktail, made with equal parts top-shelf desperation, and the world's finest dedication,
Served in a glass half full of luck.

Sometime's you're flush, and sometimes you're bust, but most times, you lie somewhere in the between.
A spinning brain and a sparatic heart.
An argument spun from the silk of a dying worm.
An infection of the brain with no negotiation of terms.

Sleeping on porches and storming the boredom beaches.
Mad? Surely. Angry? Not even. Discretely thanking the earthquake for shaking things up.
The missing link lies just outside of our nests, dangling from a branch just beyond our reaches.
Though my wings clipped, and yours yet to form fully, I'm down to take a dive just to find out what's up.

Sometimes I think the clouds in the sky are just a reflection of my attitude.
I'm only here to have fun. Either grow up or get lost, boy.
There's something about a yellowing onion that reminds me of home.