Just because ive got a betting streak
doesn't mean im good at card games.
i've got no mischeivious grins,
no mustache ends to spin, and hardly
any tricks to fit into my sleeves.
Just a couple of dirty jokes and dreams,
a sheet around me when i sleep,
and when the drugs begin to peak,
i'm the sweetest soul you never
really got to meet.
somewhere theres a record playing
in a room,
but right now i've got no simple tunes to sing on.
im burning up the American dream,
learning nothing from what everyone
thinks is knowledge.
About Me
- HaHa
Lately things are quiet.
When i keep awake
i feel the intake of my breaths.
They take up the spaces
and holes in my chest.
on a whim in the library, i think better at home. i got excited a bit
ReplyDeletewhile your peepers protrude from your skull,
and your eyelids encase them like a cucoon,
i swam in those perseavers til the body grew
bluer yet, until it was too cold for me to
reflect. and worse yet, when it gets real dark
i like to lay on the beach and feel the pull
of the tide, i subside monotonously,
and rearrange the stars so i can see, cryptically
the words that undulate projected, on diagrams i feed
always cerulean i'd like to be, inert.
words themselves will never leave me content
i grip a glimmer until it shimmers and floats
down the river and my bones click and clack
they're growing old too fast
my meager mind sits static in a flash of gray gas.
imagine that, each day we rot until the flesh cracks
its the spaces between that make the lines to gleam
perfection, a tendency for me to fall deep
i need sleep, but only when im dozing do i feel me
on my back, no way to implement the keys i see
its alright but not wrong
gresgon bil mishlek
i drink tea and i'm afraid to die
i wonder why all the emptiness inside this room
doesn't just bloom together inside a bubbling bin
maybe then ill find the company i need to concede to grin
once we all split apart i might not feel so dark
sometimes i spill to bertha in a way that rejects
the bark, we dance together and the sounds resume
but always leave me peeling alone in my room
soon enough it reassembles and nostaglia hails
before the ending, in the midst, thats where ill pretend
spurts consume me and i presume, a static position
such a condition that would leave a beak snapping
in indecision. and with a grey tongue matching my head
i sit and scribble my frustrations, oh the irony!
unless the ink should differ, my words remain
bitter and i clutch a wisp of smoke, my fingers choke
and my brain squirms, circles and spits unto my eyes
i hope that one day a better me will revise
the symptoms that i carve upon the tree of life
that is, unless i jot a thought too far
it happens, but why not utilize the bark?
grab with many arms and i'll protrude
from a forest somewhere, my head bare
extremities agile like a wild hare
duck and weave, old chap, plus it comes with a map
on dusty bookshelves i'll let tears drop