I hate people that are fake
I stake those people and throw them in a lake
I'll pop their eyeballs with some darts
I smoke another spliff with some lofi and Mozart
I choke once again on your empty-*** platitudes
I see you think you're all high but you're on low altitude
I notice you think you're so great but I hate your attitude
I despise the fact that you'll probably call me crude
I laugh at the idea that you won't make it, dude

Something whispers deep inside me
"You are the apocalypse."
So I set my pipe beside me
And think "I'm too high for this."

I am holding onto something
I'm scared it isn't real
Is this an illusion?
Is it what you really feel?

I know it is wishful thinking
Wishes don't come true
Every time you're on my mind
I hope I am on yours too

I am waiting for your attitude to change
Wondering when it will end
The moment heart finally breaks
Allowing it to start to mend

Labyrinths have me trapped
In each feeling you raise
Searching but I still can't find
My way out of this maze

When you left
there were no words
or meaning

Just endless piles of dictionaries.

Inspiration strikes like lightning--
Wait, no, scratch that.
I’m really trying hard not to be cliche.
Inspiration strikes like the common cold:
It creeps up slowly and dreadfully
Until I’m spewing snot out of my nose
And coughing up nonsense for a week.  
That’s actually a bit more accurate.

How often do you catch a cold?
Once a year.
Maybe twice.

Currently I am writing uninspired;
Linguistically constipated.
Maybe I’m just a bad writer
Or maybe the act of writing was only meant
To punctuate my emo phase
Because then I was a teenager
And the possibility of living off of poetry
Was only a fun idea
And not a requirement.

How often do you think about money?
Just as often as
Everybody else does.

It’s (almost) as though artists
Must continuously invite sickness
Into our lives to remain active creators.
I’m sabotaging my immune system
So that I’ll be sick enough
To see the world as a tyrant
Who can be brought to justice
Only through the power
of my martyred voice.

It’s society making me sick,
Not me,
Why would I do that to myself?
I’m just trying to make a living
The best way I know how.

Forever no more,
A forgotten shore
A wasted land of
broken promises
embedded in each kiss,
Each step.

And all I can think
about is you~

******* on deez nuts.

No Nut November
Is the hardest thing
I have ever participated in.

Seriously, it’s really hard.
Like all the time, and at the most
INCONVENIENT places.

Waiting for the train? Hard.
Taking a dump? Hard.
Wedding or funeral?
Yea let’s not go there...

But the worst moment by far
was telling a homeless man
I didn’t have any change, and he
Said, “it’s okay, no one’s been this
happy to see me in years”
​

I raise the bone up to my two juicy lips
and I purse.
Here comes the carcinogen, the miasmic smoke,
the old ghost.

But, my
love,
it's not like it
was.

My love,
it's
not like it was.

I pick into the basalt black, like a boss.
I exhale,
mining verses from my vernacular
like
poisonous
metal.

But, my
love,
it's not like it
was.

It's nothing like it was,
and I'm perfectly fine.



In a manner of speaking.