Here’s to girls who laugh at your jokes
And don’t want you to **** yourself.
Here’s to the grind, and all it’s soul-*******.
Here’s to weasels, and
Possums and rodents of all sorts.
Commence, the hallucinations of
Cream-colored wheat fields, and
Their straw guardians,
Harkening to the inept and
The inadequate, to try their product.
It’s why their older stuff is better,
It’s why the alternative is the standard,
Because you’re too **** much
Like everybody else,
And inside, it’s killing you.
Like every spelling mistake you
Forgot to correct, and every
Fallen soldier, with pop-top wounds,
Whose blood, you never lapped up.
Buzz-to-Buzz.
You can’t play the victim, when you’re
Already the villain.
And the “S” on your chest doesn’t
Stand for your name.
You can try, but anyone with
The good decency to wear
Sunglasses can see through you.
And then the acid kicked in.
And
The amusement park of your
Unimaginable, becomes obvious.
And there’s a leather belt wrapped around
Your restrained eyes, lest their be any
Burglars, out to climb through those windows.
When you’d rather scar up your
Arms than let them be the
Better half of an embrace. When the
Clouds are a few more shades of
Gray darker than they were the
Day before. When your life is as
Disposable as your coffee cup
Or your college education,
Come find me.
Everyone of my friends' favorite, I suppose.