I pride myself on being the laziest "artist" there is; I won't lift a finger in the name of what I do. No. I drag my fingers across the barren mountain range, claiming the rubble left by the distancing wake.
How bad can a bullet be? I ask myself this as I place the revolver to my skull and fire away at the land of make believe; listening to the crickety-clank of the hollow chambers that trip and stumble over each failed attempt at breathing anew -- like a baby taut with its rope gasping for life but in vain.
I've always felt like a lab rat trapped inside a cage getting laughed at by fat cats in pristine white lab coats These feline felons are playing god with my anthill mind; too bad I'm a termite rewired with fine wire terminator style There's a magnifying glass high above slinging beams of shine at the solar panel buried in my back Rusty and corroded this little robot took the impossible and imploded
I am the Frankenstein of my inspirations A **** poor compilation of yesterday's explanations I shave with a meat cleaver chop liver the nonbelievers You could never save me I'm where's Waldo against a backdrop of galaxy sized barber shop lollipops