Inside my head at all times
I slowly begin to believe
that all of these poems
are self-serving servings of selfishness
can I accept that for what it is?
self-acceptance is accepted as the way to go
but improvement sounds just like superficial small talk
I smell like pickles and meat sauce at any given time
but these ink stained fingers
know no bias based on heart beats
Hysteria in the streets
watch the ants swarm over the abandoned picnic
watch the ants lose their **** over mixed chemical signals
Mary is calling me home to her embrace
and I'm too nice to say no
but if I could just get a small lead
I'd open up the highway and discover Eden
regardless of how many times God ***** his teeth
blood is blue until it meets oxygen
and the blues were stolen from a people who truly knew them
but hey - whatever sells, right?
put the bullet in my head
should I ever become one of them