Remember when we used to lay down on the field, looking up until we see clouds?
Then we create faces like we were a poet trying to say the words from our mouth but only laughter that came out.

Remember when we stayed up all night,
telling stories that were probably weren't real but we did it for our scaredy *** and couldn't sleep that night?
We were like directors trying to create some corny horror scenes from our head but our pants ended up filled with ***.

Now, when I look up to the clouds,
I see our childhood painted in pure white and I  paint them in my empty dusty canvas that I found  in my basement.

There are so many kids dying of cancer,
And I'm here dragging a blade through my skin.
Life is so unfair,
Why can't I just die instead of them?

The vacant streets get crowded with kids,
Open eyes with curious eyelids,
Watch the older ones play with sticks.

With their dolls, the girls throw their show,
Bragging about the toy with the prettiest bow,
And waiting for their moms to see.

The boys with their "weapons", "shooting" and shouting,
Beating their chest and gracefully scouting,
Waiting for their dads to hear.

The sunset slowly calls them inside,
For the older ones, now comes the time,
To peacefully roam around buildings.

They cry 'cause of heartbreaks,
They hide 'cause of smoke flakes,
Blowing out their mistakes through their mouth.

No kids can sleep now, nor old nor young,
Quietly speaking and as they swung, on a swing,
They looked deeper into the sun going down.

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Poppa was a rolling stone,
but you know Poppa never neglects home,
Poppa handled all his things,
and still made time for his guitar strings
==============================

Poppa was a rolling stone,
but Poppa always came back home,
Poppa always did whats right,
and always tucked you in at night,

Poppa always stood for truth,
he would not have be no other way,
Poppa could have chosen to go,
instead your Poppa chose to stay

==============================
Poppa was a rolling stone,
but you know Poppa never neglects home,
Poppa handled all his things,
and still made time for his guitar strings
==============================

Poppa was a rolling stone,
but Poppa couldn't come back home,
Poppa tried to do whats right,
sometimes he couldn't tuck you in at night,

Poppa tried to stand for truth,
but as a man, Poppa made mistakes,
Poppa didn't want to go,
but Poppa could not longer stay...

Poppa was a rolling stone......

Paper dreams
Im the fiend.

Among the thoughts inside my head
You tiptoe through and head to bed.

Oh, the dread.
It eats away all night and day.
No keeping it at bay for i have no say.

I never really did. Lead to believe i had a foot in the door but what more, what a bore. The things in store. A blink and a breath later and its in my mouth.

Bitter words and acid truth. The lies taste as sweet as they smell fresh from my oven.

Aroma carried far in the breeze. Pollinating your thoughts and breeding my children.

I live on through them. And yet they are false.

And so the question remains.
Am i still here?

I’m capable of disaster—
Godspeed to the mother of disaster
Carpe Diem, Beverly Hills is ready for you, faster,
our minds are rupturing from these rapturous months
it’s all a little much for us
Surreality, angular surreality
We’re two-faced, defacing reality’s ideals
Because it’s up to us, that’s the veridical deal
‘99 can’t party, no—
Not like the kids
who can no longer feel.