Apparently I have no voice of my own merely crowing sick imitations into the wee morning moonlight as waves crash upon the beach and I find myself in this ****** den of a room again swallowing poison to drown my anxieties.
Is this really happening all around me as colors start to blend and the one and only Velvet Underground is pounding away somewhere inside my seemingly mismatched head.
Run run run and type type type cry cry cry and drink drink drink **** **** **** and smoke smoke smoke keep on keepin on and fake it till you make it and eventually I'll wake up and realize that all of this is just some childish acting out.
All this crap I call poetry, all this festering wound of a single minded attempt at self validation really and truly and unnecessarily is an attempt for me to try and feel like a human being while slowly inexorably slogging my way into a one armed knife fight and all I've got is something that couldn't even get it's **** hard enough to shoot that miserable IED makin ******* in the face as he sanctimoniously deserved.
You wanna talk about real so then let's talk about real lets dare some wannabe ******* to talk to my pasty white *** about hard decisions and true to the ***** maxie pad core of human experience.
Call me a hipster and a beat while burning the pretty marijuana fire that some use just as pervasively as others drink while calling it medicine since it comes from a plant but it's still a crutch unless you actually have cancer.
Maybe I am indeed just an angry kid fighting to find a place in this metal shod ******* of a country that we pray to like some slumbering god but if that's the case than that is really what we all are who live here and dare not take up the honest trade of making molotov cocktails.
Perhaps we should call it happy ****** day instead.