Dec 2023
I feel lucid as my lost dreams, loosely as could be,
To act upon my wicked heart's desire as Lucifer could have
been, and if that's just human, Lucifers all are we.
I've been mostly running out of time, with not much seconds
to count. And I don't blame the company of family wanting to
keep me out,—I don't blame you, I'd want to kick myself
out of my house. I should do better, but I don't seem to match
the words of people's expectations; never really lived on the
letter. But I sometimes hope in a next lifetime I could be clever.
A lesser of a lessor, but I don't have much of a heart to rent
...out, or let anyone I know to reflect my love.
The pro's and con's of loving me, a con of a man who only really shows the truth in his prose. Mixing the art with the inspiration
of rap; all of which are the stories that pass, and a gift towards a
movie picture of the present. I guess that's a wrap.
By the hopes of a double entendre, I hope I could double out
my life facts. Maybe if I could dream a life of living out my
best fictions, I could be justified to give a god thanks.
Masking my pride with the smiles I pull out of my pocket,
while trying to live a life on time I had to borrow.
But even if you swallow the seed of a man, you still
couldn't birth his much-needed humbleness.
..."I guess pride is much harder to swallow."
And like an addiction of the pills I had, the truth of
my own addictions are all so hard to swallow.
Still every piece I write feels like a letter to my younger self,
hoping he doesn't follow in my footsteps,— I wasn't the best
role model. The teen who would roll a model blunt just
to get a flood of ideas to drown out his mind.
But that's a lie; I never really was the one who knew how
to roll up one, and of course the intention was just to get high.
Still... what's there to expect of a shy guy,
mostly the types who refuse to cry, choosing to give a bitter
reply. Never to say what's really on their mind: the truth
is I'm....sigh never mind!
I'm just writing to pass the time, like passing that blunt,
feeling like I can't, but I'd rather take knowing that I can't,
then having more people call me out as a ****.
To act upon my wicked heart's desire as Lucifer could have
been, and if that's just human, Lucifers all are we.
I've been mostly running out of time, with not much seconds
to count. And I don't blame the company of family wanting to
keep me out,—I don't blame you, I'd want to kick myself
out of my house. I should do better, but I don't seem to match
the words of people's expectations; never really lived on the
letter. But I sometimes hope in a next lifetime I could be clever.
A lesser of a lessor, but I don't have much of a heart to rent
...out, or let anyone I know to reflect my love.
The pro's and con's of loving me, a con of a man who only really shows the truth in his prose. Mixing the art with the inspiration
of rap; all of which are the stories that pass, and a gift towards a
movie picture of the present. I guess that's a wrap.
By the hopes of a double entendre, I hope I could double out
my life facts. Maybe if I could dream a life of living out my
best fictions, I could be justified to give a god thanks.
Masking my pride with the smiles I pull out of my pocket,
while trying to live a life on time I had to borrow.
But even if you swallow the seed of a man, you still
couldn't birth his much-needed humbleness.
..."I guess pride is much harder to swallow."
And like an addiction of the pills I had, the truth of
my own addictions are all so hard to swallow.
Still every piece I write feels like a letter to my younger self,
hoping he doesn't follow in my footsteps,— I wasn't the best
role model. The teen who would roll a model blunt just
to get a flood of ideas to drown out his mind.
But that's a lie; I never really was the one who knew how
to roll up one, and of course the intention was just to get high.
Still... what's there to expect of a shy guy,
mostly the types who refuse to cry, choosing to give a bitter
reply. Never to say what's really on their mind: the truth
is I'm....sigh never mind!
I'm just writing to pass the time, like passing that blunt,
feeling like I can't, but I'd rather take knowing that I can't,
then having more people call me out as a ****.
