people will like your words,
but they won't like you.

They like pepperoni pizza,
but they don't love the goo.

It's okay, I understand.
Nobody's quite like me.

But what I see is instead a sort of class story.

I'm poor so I don't get a second chance at having fun..

But if I were white, and were not brown, I'd have a better chance at having fun.

Placid, secular wretchings have held a hilt upon a building we've since had our city agree and seal all of our holy hopes on.

Wobbegone travels hadn't held a torch to all of our second city queens who held their beautiful social justice cloaks upon brooches tied on our heart strings with pins tipped with poison.

It sings...
her voice.
Our champion.

She sings, but still it stings to know she'll have to die on our behalf because we can't handle a golden cow... Let alone: her calf.

Laugh at her
and let me be.

I want to die before I live.

Honey soaked milk is all I ever want to see..

Blind me blind me blind me.

Pristine hens,
covered in golden feathers had penned
me a welcome note
to show me where all her, and their eggs were.


... I never stirred in the mornings,
because our rooster was a horror show.

He'd blow out bellows and blankets of snot covered win,
that began to make us feel like sinners for only living.


Still every day...
We'd sit there and lay.
And stay....
and lay.
Every day and every morning.

I'm sorry I wasn't more for you, Sir.
I"m sure you'd rather I were.
But all I am is a chicken, Sir...
Really!!!
That's all I ever really were...

Dead grass is holding up my garden of chicken ****
Stories, many stories held high on the projected
notion that I can save every brown person one day.

Pickling is a process
And so is sticking with some showy shrew.

Stewing is a process
and so is showing me that I'm like you.

It's takes a *** of water,
It take showmanship.
Laughter into laughter,
into improvised loving moments that slip.

Slipped into a joke, and
sliding into a smile.
I don't have to try.
Because you, your soul
I can beguile.

Maybe not no ones.
But that don't matter to me.
It's the game that I had chose to play,
because your eyes are all I see.

Never have I ever felt not so even crazy.

It amazed me
when I found out me,
it was not ME!
It's you!

It's in everything you do.
It's in the air upon your hair...
It's the smell in your soul, it's true.

It's eleven in the night.
But still i'd rather fight.
For the fact that you're not me.
But I can't begin to be
a guy who can be for someone.

For someone who is him.
It's a shame, and I'm a sin.
But even still it's how I feel.
I feel your wrong, and I'm not ill.

Let me mention something:

It's how pushing my soul
to the limit had in fact inhibited me.

Shivs in my sides helped enlighten me.
Like gold leaf on the edge of the break up letter.
I'm better for it,

It helped restored me and help me see who I am.

But it's awful hot in the pit now,

I'm a boiler room pal just like all the rest of us boys,
who toil and sell out backs for butter and soil.

Something we can eat and plan with.
Instead it's sand that we find as our foundations.

You can call us the sod and clay nation,
because that's all we'll ever know.
My motivation is my hog, and my puny reproduction is my sow.

Souled up sewings in a demon quilt,
built on lies and loans,
deals and interest
have shown that I'd rather blow out my brains
than abstain from honesty. Honestly.