You are bad weather and
lightning striking for the second time
on a single target.
You are an illness,
a sore that never goes away.
You ruin things.
You ruin everything.
Even when you try to ruin one thing,
you mess that up and ruin another.
*******, it's a black comedy
and nobody can win it;
nobody can smile here.
Yeah, sure, you can't sleep tight in
your moral blankets, but can you
dance a two step holding onto
nothing but the skeletons in your closet?
I won't be grateful for anything now-
I won't be waiting anymore,
I can't keep up anymore,
not like this. If madness couldn't
keep it in place, now I'll wear sanity
and be all the more psychopathic for it.
You are as you are
and everything else
just exists, doesn't it?

Fingers stained black.
Careless.
Spine bent like the railing
after the crash. Bent hard.

You're not even solid ground.
You're a whisper in the air.
Everything that
vibrates
has a pitch.

Everybody's muse.
Everyone's *******.
Plastic-like.
Flimsy.

All the switches
are off.

I said, "I love you"
while expecting nothing back,
and I got just that.

Silence, then, "I know."
Meanwhile Cleveland is on fire,
as I hold you close.
~
You ask me to stay,
but your kisses are so short
they fade on contact.

Like butter in a
hot skillet, or water, they're
evaporating.

Yet one is sweet and
the other is so common
it hardly matters.
~
I'm remembering,
the winter we first met, where
I had first kissed you.

Then you disappeared
for three short years or something
pretty close to that.

Reflecting winter,
the sun came up, you started
evaporating.
~
I'm leaving you at
the greyhound station when you
kiss me finally.

The finality
hangs on my lips for so long
it's hardly ended.

She was a trap built from
tigers and rusty pieces.
Feral, rotten, effective.
Eyes me like prey,
and I am.

I am falling slowly,
so slow they think I can fly
so slow they think I glide through
life and love with my feet on a
carpet of marbles and oil.

21st century type.
Sharp like a knife,
but not like a suit.
The music is so loud
it’s muffled.
It is smothered by itself.
I lost my wallet and limbs,
and they were replaced with
alcohol and prosthetics.

Gheists flooding
the contraption,
singing mantras
in tongues.

Now I seek a greater machine;
Skin carved from marble,
and lips from bleeding
citrus fruits,
acids becoming
nourishment.

Spent a charity gig trying my hardest not
to say, "I'd rather die than be here."
I laugh brutally sincere at just the idea,
say **** it, *******, **** this
to someone reaching out for
empathy who deserves
none.
My humanity as devoid as humanity's humanity,
maybe people aren't so graceful and righteous
after all, and if "Honest Abe" lied his
hairy *** off for all those years,
and Ghandi was still a racist,
and Ohio has a monument
to genocide,
I can burn all these temples and churches
and not have it as sacrilegious as
any bible ******* conservative
wants their enemy to be.
I wouldn't stick a spear in Jesus,
but I wouldn't lending a hand.

I could be sunshine.
People tell me that I'm sweet.
I'm glad they think so.

They ignore my hate,
turning blind eyes to the sun.
I am not so kind.

I ate nothing for several weeks
and in waking lucid starvation
I dreamt I was an assassin;

a pacifist when everyone was looking,
a warrior when eyes were closed.

I stalked prey that hunted,
and as they rewrote history
from centuries away,
I could even hear them smile.

Deep grins, ear to ear,
like blades running across throats,
ear to ear.
Grins wide like rivers,
mountains and deserts,
wet like lakes.

Faster than hell.

I woke up in a sweat,
air conditioner broken,
cats outside meowling,
looking for a ****
and not careful
what they wish for.

If you don't wave flags in people's faces,
they'll never understand what you're about.
Subtlety is not a natural act of human
consciousness; we think in screams,
even if they whisper. Hence;
"Austin Heath Music".
Like a gunshot in the suburbs;
not uncommon, just annoying.
Not uncommon, either, to think
lowly of your species
if it commits war and genocide.
"Austin Heath Music"...
has a certain ring to it, right?

I missed the party but not really "missed"
as in I "believe" I would have fun at these things but
I just can't. My hand sways over a house of cards.
My fleeting potential is not realized.
Watching the rain fall from the kitchen sink
and imagining acoustic guitar strums from the 70's.
What a ******* gorgeous cliche.
My heart is sound, my hand waves over this house of cards;
every ******* mistake I can make to hold this in place
is a victory made holy made sainthood.
The veritable laundry list of mistakes I've made,
and the shopping list of **** I'm going to do.
I'd hope I'm appearing as if there is a masterstroke
to all this chaos, except, I'm not even a minor influence.
A gentle wind rolls by.

I'm not a lucrative billionaire,
I have no dreams or aspirations.
I'm terrified of dying.
I'm not much in any sense of the words.
Why do I look at myself like this?
What do I hope to accomplish?
I'm not meant for a million dollars,
and I never bit down
on a silver spoon.
I'm a god ****** loser.
What am I waiting for?

So this is how it all falls down, huh?
It spirals downward and out of control,
forces beyond your nature going flippant
without mercy or thought.
This is how it ends;
not with a bang or a whisper,
but with a soft whistling
that ends in impact without detonation.
We're really ****** this time, aren't we?
We really ****** ourselves.
You have no escape plan,
no sense of time anymore,
****, you nailed your feet to a sinking ship.
And just watch how this ship sinks,
a gallon at a time until
we're at the bottom.
Get ready for the bottom, because
if you thought you knew the bottom before,
Oh, you were so poorly mistaken.
You have so much left to see.
King of filth;
you have so much more to live for.

The thought hits me that I "could" someday
be a great writer and captivate audiences.
I "could" be brilliant.
I couldn't even claim my own success,
what with all these sycophants
eager to pull the rug from under me
and call it their own.
Being a musician made me a musician.
Being a writer made me a writer.
Being an artist made me an artist.
Everything else just happened,
and even if it was poignant,
none of you feeble minded ****** built me.
Remember that waking up is the last step,
and the rest is incidental.
If it all blows up in my face
you'll remind me whose hand
was in that bomb, happily.
If it tips and falls over harmlessly,
you'll want to tell me how much
your guidance meant to me.
I can't even claim my own success.

It felt like my brain had been in a gyroscope;
my eyes were screaming and getting
****** by lasers, and my body was going
inside out.
I jumped out of bed, and into the bathroom
slamming one hand on the kitchen sink
and holding the door handle with the other,
then purging the food/poison. Four Times.
My head went from a concrete block to a balloon.
Thick chunks of hamburger meat
like a great serpent flowing from my
gut, outward.
I lied down on the floor for a second;
it was the first time I'd vomited since elementary.
Bukowski would have been proud;
I didn't miss the toilet. Of all the things I'm
bad at, and I still purge like a professional.
All the **** I can't do,
yet I didn't miss.

Love me like a kettle,
like a sea of consequences
like a brick in
your glass house.

She is a dreamer,
who breathes through
her skin,
and lives
with her regrets on her sleeve;
boldly.

We dreamt we were mountains,
and put our heroes on our backs
because we couldn't bear
not to look up to them.

Sick sick, but no one cares,
everyone's tired of murdering me.

Or just trying, maybe everyone's just trying.

Took a map to the bathroom stall
and couldn't quite find where the
hell I am,
just know that
this place is pretty ******.

Can't sleep can't stay awake,
trying to take a break but
where the **** is the door?
Is it another place to live,
or is it something else?

I'm having trouble trying to tell,
and I don't know where to quit.

I hate myself for how fast I give up on things,
especially things that matter to me.
The way every moment seems singular
in time, space.

Gravity crashes in when I see you.
Your mouth is a graveyard
Each of the teeth in your smile,
a tombstone.
You say my name as if it’s
written in stone.
Carved.

I don’t think it gets better.
You feel increasingly mortal the more
they know you on a “first-name-basis”.
Working 8 hours a day doesn’t give you
the same distance anymore.
Everybody is doing something to get high,
get altitude, relief, waste their health,
except you.

Live your life like it’s the last.
Smile, for the illusions and lies they give you
are pillows on your death bed.
The courtesy you give others;
bury the truth.

To burn the skeletons in your closet.

Bury it six feet inside you.
Keep it deep in your stomach,
so that when you speak
only the crows come out.
Your tongue is the gravel path.
Lips, black iron gates.

Your smile is a graveyard.

Wasting space, carbon, and air.
Wanted to tell everyone a story,
but forgot the punchline.
Typically, every story has a punchline,
didn't you know?
Rough crowd or bad joke?
Chest pains, failing organs,
and trying to age "gracefully".
Trying to grow old and die
like a feather gently falling
into a pile of ****;
Swaying in the wind
and wishing for dignity.
We are.
It makes sense, from a distance
in warm light, starlight, bar light.
Pride is really for the young,
but you don't have to be young
to lose your pride. Doesn't matter.
Failing organs and personalities.
**** do we deserve this.
I don't have much faith in my neighbors,
and they probably think I'm a sociopath.
We're all part of a species
that commits genocide and
calls it war.
Wasting space, carbon, and air.

The brightest
star
isn't in the sky.

You fill your Marlboro blacks
with marijuana and sing off key
all the way through the songs
on 90.1FM.

We turn onto the highway and I
manually
roll down the window and put my head
into the breeze and pray something stops me.
My hair too full of Murray's and American Crew
to really shift in the wind, even as it beats my
eyes shut.

Tell me about your obsessions with blood.
The kid in the back seat can't play guitar,
and the Béla Bartók inspired cacophony
in the gutters of my soul
assure me, "Yeah, it's so ******* easy to be
a 'good person', and maybe you can't
sleep some nights
or
repress anything, everything,
but the hardest smiles are reserved
for those who don't want and maybe
cannot be saved anymore."

Turn off the highways, avenues, streets,
roads, parking lots, radios, lights and minds.
My mother swears to me that Christ said,
"the last shall come first and...",
so I aim for rock bottom and
let the real drummers take a break.
Sink into ceilings and headphones and
products and senses and relish it
with tears in my eyes.

We make our blood toxic to predators
&
we don't fear hurting the people we love,
because we don't love anyone, really.

The brightest star isn't even in the sky,
but not everything that shines reeks of beauty
or significance, or glamor, or assurance, or hope.
Everything could be ******* perfect.
[It excels in mediocrity.]

The train screams and you twitch your fingers
consciously, yet still nervously,
you're thinking about the first time you attempted,
and it's vivid and terrifying,
like dreams of falling that last one second,
but strung together for about five minutes.
You breathe irregularly.
You think about how most people can't read your handwriting.
You write a masterpiece on the pillow,
right next to her head. Hope that she sleeps better than you,
with sweet thoughts she easily forgets,
and the bass of that train rocks the
boulder in your stomach.
You shift your feet, your legs, your body, close your eyes,
exhale,
and pretend you are completely still,
but subconsciously those fingers are twitching,
until the feeling is gone.

Nobody has time for me, I wanna cry so bad
but I'm afraid if anybody hears me  sobbing
I'll get harder on myself even though last night
I wanted to ******* but my body wanted to call it quits,
but my mind was so awake I didn't sleep for a single second.
Or maybe I did.
I keep thinking about how
I never know when I'll see you next.
It's like I tried so hard to just be ******* miserable,
I bought a notebook, but locked myself out,
so I yelled at it for twenty minutes or so;

"WHAT THE **** WAS I SUPPOSED TO BE?
THIS IS YOUR FAULT!"
This music thing was supposed to be my dream,
and Austin you're gonna go places, or get everything you want,
my mother says we'll make millions off of all my ****** songs,
as soon as I'm on the radio,
but who the **** listens to the radio?
People counted on me to be someone,
like I'm ******* somebody whose supposed to be somebody.
I've ******* ruined people for you.
I've done things I still can't live with,
and most of them started with a pen.
I'm supposed to love music, these songs were supposed to
take the sadness out of my head and make it tangible,
but instead it made them permanent.
So everyone else gets to be saved by music,
but I get to destroy myself with it.

My head gets so ******* loud at night.
Everything is in caps lock.
I stay up for days on end
until the feeling is gone.

There’s this ******* first shift and she’s ******* magic and won’t be mine because I’m trouble and I break ****, and she’s fragile and lovely.

She tells me she’s unstable and damaged and I could cry every night if I wasn’t so convinced I can get over this.

I half *** so much but I obey my emotions.

When she gave me her number I sang, “what if?”

When she asked if I was in an open relationship I thought, “I wish.”

When I was single, she came over and I whispered, “I just want this.”

However, I try to play it cool and send love subtly, but I’m a ******* and a *** and a loser and I can’t drown my sorrows in anything so they keep me up at night.

She came into my life like a hurricane and I was swept off my feet, but I made the conscious decision to be loving to her. I cut a hole out exactly her size and she kissed me on the lips and said no.

She got diagnosed with cancer again and decided to quit fighting and I want to kiss every inch of her and make her feel like she was always deserving of the best love someone could give.

I want to kiss every part of her skin and make her better again because she is the light of any room she’s in.

I want to kiss her, but I’m ***** from throwing myself in the gutter,

from trying to **** strangers,

from singing sad songs,

from losing more sleep every night,

from hurting people I love

and

hurting myself to hurt them more.


There’s this ******* first shift and she’s absolute magic and I loved her too soon.


She’s fading from the inside, out,

while I rot from the outside, in.

I want to speak in poetry
about how when people say
they'll be here for you,
they usually lie.

So much has been lost to
a cold war of passive aggression,
passions in long succession,
maybe spite.

Stings like alcohol on a fresh wound.

We all get here eventually, maybe,
I'd throw us all away to just be
the last one laughing.
The last one on top of this pile of demons
with a massive crown of scabs
fit for some king monster
&
large beating disgusting
wings.

This empire needs no throne.

Gods on fire. I wouldn't **** on it's teeth
to put out the flames. I imagine it
started as an Easter Rabbit, a Santa Claus
and grew into a monster.
Outgrew the cage. Outgrew a master.
I don't believe it's real.
I am pretentious and without culture,
illiterate in compassion,
and wear empathy like a merit badge.
It's actually almost sad
to say out loud, but I'm the closest thing
I have to a voice of reason.
Reason?
I was born in a rush, was an accident,
they say childbirth is a miracle,
but it looks like satanic ritual.
My father was pagan, my mother is christian.
She chose my name last minute
[the story I heard was that it was
a street sign].
They expected a girl.
I'm not strong in frame,
not masculine in stature or mind;
People tell me I talk to much
and I find it hard to disagree.
Volumes of words I purge
into kitchen sinks/ wandering eyes/
drifting minds/ and every word
floats ahead of me like an envelope,
yet every letter is empty.
So many definitions, shades of me,
so much **** and sunshine,
and it's all equally weightless.
A trivial guessing game...
What my name should have meant,
should have been,
an idea I could have played metaphor to,
but,
instead this mess is arbitrary.

Can't get closer to the floor now,
you should have fibbed;
You're so good at it.

****** it up and drew the strings together
lost the strings, fell, fell five stories,
fell through all your stories,
felt light like a feather
with a stomach lined with lead.

You're a mess again,
and you sleep in clouds
and sleep soundly all the while
a little voice in your head
wonders how.

Spent years learning how to scream
with your mouth closed.

American liberalism;
How to explode on nuclear levels
without burning a single calorie,

and we're all just
painted blue.

We fear becoming our parents,
and then spend years learning
everyone becomes
an ******* anyways.

30+ years committed to suicide
in slow motion waiting to die.
Tigers frozen still and broken,
their eyes wild, their faces frantic,
frozen; clawing each other and running
like a container of bulls on fire and starved.
Their stripes like tears in the fabric of some
uncaring and cruel reality.

Dare to call yourself an artist.

Sunlight streams
directly onto an orchid
and
eventually it dies.
Beautiful parasites.

I have nothing to say anymore,
and it makes me into an object
but it feels incredible
so I'm taking a break
and I don't miss you.

I had a nightmare I was murdering
clones of political prisoners
with a ****** rifle from afar,
in some modest white trash
suburban house.
One got away wounded.
I thought about how
****** up everything was
and realized I was in a dream,
and started walking around
confidently I was free,
but then paranoid.

I tried stopping a few cars to
ask if I was okay, but they
just passed me by.
I walked up to a woman
getting into a car and asked,
"Am I in a dream or just dizzy?"
She replied,
"You're just dizzy,
do you need me to get a doctor?"

"No, I'm gonna be just fine."

They'll recognize me
by the sound of thunder in
my reputation.

I am no hero,
and I'm no antagonist.
I'm common at least.

Somehow I touch you
and you are changed, and it means
nothing about me.

They will know me by
a storm of fates, bent centers,
violent in the wind.

The deliberate
Movement of the mountains, and
Flow of the ocean.

My hurricanes clean
My face of humanity/
Inhumanity.

I am barely man,
Only flesh on the surface.
Something of this world.

I am stone and sea,
Heart heavy and longingly
Dancing with eyes shut.

I'm standing in the jaws of this monster.
It may seem like fiction to most people,
but I've spent some twenty odd years
in the belly of a goliath.
It came and ate the planet,
but did it slowly, over centuries and centuries,
so as no one would panic.
No, instead
they killed each other, and
lost money on the stock exchange,
and went gambling on thursday nights.
All the while, we were slowly being eaten,
and not even one person wanted to admit
that everyone was a ******* lunatic
for not screaming till their heads popped.
I guess secretly we understood.
We don't even matter;
we're just bacteria down here.
It digested our **** planet,
but we lived, yeah,
we survived down here.
Amongst it's **** and it's
appetite and it's stomach acids
and it's growls. Deafening.
A few of us decided to try to escape,
and we were considered insane.
Collectively hysteric.
We found the jaws of this leviathan,
I can see the outside but
I can't tell which way is home.

I never got a
scar from something dangerous,
only accidents.

I'm not an angel,
I'm the ******* you warn your
friends about *******.

I'm the guy you look
over your shoulder at while
walking home at night.

I'm the person you
wish you could come home to, but
processed by traumas.

Princess, come take me
in my home and  far away,
give me something sweet.;

A kiss or a look,
a hand to hold tightly or
a smile to receive.

Watch the sky with me.
I'm dizzy on this planet,
moving so quickly.

I need something sweet
to pass the time between now
and whenever, please?

I feel a kick in my chest,
but it's just my heart.
I'm choking to death
in slow motion.
The important questions
leave you in tears.
The important message.
Rifling through my mind,
but I never think of guns;
rifling for the feeling.
A ******* touch of it.
Gasping for air with arms
outstretched far above my head.
Reaching.
Reaching!
It's intanginble, and
moving so slowly backwards
I think I've gone ahead.

I miss you so ******* much it hurts,
in my mind and in my chest.
The smell of your hair,
the feel of your skin.
The sound of your voice,
if you say "I love you", or
**** it, even if you asked
"are you okay?",
because right now
I would say I am not.
I would say I miss you.
Waking up next to you,
or really, opening my eyes,
sometimes,
as you wake up next to me.
I miss your touch,
sometimes,
you hold me and
you won't lie.
So you don't tell me
everything is going to be okay.
You say something else.
I miss that.
I miss it so much I had to start up
my ******* lap top after midnight
to write it down.
I ******* miss you.
Initiating a kiss.
Telling a story.
****…
Everything.
Just anything, okay?
So now, one of these messes
says it; I love you.
I love you so much I have trouble thinking
of a life without you, and a love for you.
I love you so much it hurts too.
It hurts to smile about the thought of you still.
I miss your snarky attacks on
the mainstream narrative.
I love your sarcastic dismantling
of the dominant ideology.
I ******* love you.
If you were wondering what I think
about when you're not here,
I think of you.
Sometimes it makes me smile,
sometimes it makes me feel alone,
but I think of you.
I miss you so much it hurts.

My acting debut
was recorded at midnight.
My starring role, "Guy,

tripping on acid."
My fifteen seconds of fame.
Eating rice paper

and looking "spaced out."
I also got to look bored.
It was pretty cool.

It's been hard to write.
Things are mostly okay now.
Guess I'm not sorry.

Buried by insane deities
that live in single cell domains.
Insecure in the best ways,
holding on blindly without courage,
not brave, not adequate.

Pick up your textbooks and
learn how to fly with
your toes on the ground.

If you go searching for dinosaurs,
or particle physics,
you'll miss everything so terribly
gorgeous and lovely
about today.

And about today;

When I'm sad I read john cage,
Play a game, listen to jazz,
Watch a tutorial,
Watch the professionals,
Exist distracted.

I am a meat cleaver of a creature,
I am an old ******* and a ***.
I  am an adorable disaster,
A cute catastrophe.

I am...

Wearing a lot of yellow
To get through today.
Van Gogh ate yellow paint,
To be
Happy on the inside.

My lover tells me,
“whatever you want, baby.”
and I’m still melting.

I’m still dreaming and
the pressure inside these veins
cooks a short story.

Pressure of my veins/
the bottom of the ocean,
with all it’s monsters.

“We make it happen.”,
I’m interrupted later,
weeks, or maybe days.

Last night I tried getting arrested,
and tried wrestling a plastic bag
out of a tree. The cops are
too forgiving. I lobbed rocks over
grocery stores and down the
empty streets of 4am.
I am relentless only
in my want of death.
I am lonely.
I am lonely right now.
I don't want to be lonely but I have no choice.
So here I am being ******* lonely,
and I won't say **** because I want you
to come to me first, to reach out first,
and secretly I want to be dead
before you make it here.
I want to cry but the tears just fall into that void.
I wish I could just feel empty or numb.
I had so many dreams once...

Welcome to the living room,
the bizarre state of all things comes to ******.
Psychic hurricanes and barbarian therapy;
Stab me in the back, stab me in the heart,
but in the end isn't it all the same bleeding?
And you swore they'd never figure out,
and you swore they'd never figure out
and you swore they never figure out.
Welcome to the living room,
the bizarre state of ALL things comes to ******.
Stab me in the back, stab me in the heart,
it's the same bleeding,
and you swore they'd never figure out
and you swore they'd never figure out
and you swore that they would never figure out
and you swore,
they would never figure out.

So many awful things happen
to people who don't deserve it,
and they try to
destroy themselves
for it.

I wish I could just burn this **** stain
world to ashes and **** in them.

This hole is full of angels
and humanity *******
shreds them into ribbons
and wears them
like rags.

You are a maybe that made me say
"what if"
And passed by like a hurricane
&
I thought I was trouble,

But I hold my immorality tight
And they call it "honesty"
And I lose sleep because;

They say I have a beautiful soul
(I don't believe in)
Gorgeous eyes,

They say I'm wonderful
I hate that.

Would they love me if they knew my secrets?

Would you kiss me if you knew I'd been kissing gravestones?
Knocking on their front doors,
Begging for superstitions?

I live in a hurricane.
Something tumultuous.
I wonder if the trees also
die habitually,
seasonally.

Boiling.
I had a fever dream of being
meat in a self perpetuating
grinder. For a second
I could be
tender,
but I am made of bone,
and skin and little blood.
Brick by brick,
you've built me into
something less.
Crafted me into weightlessness,
so when I say death is my front door
and I sleep on the welcome mat,
sleep is like the police and you
are a parent strung out on smack.
I stomped on you in the clouds
where you broke three ribs.
I kicked your teeth in; heaven
came from your guts up to
the bottom of your tongue.
However, you have flesh, and fat,
and cartilage, and nail, and hair,
and willed me to sleep with less than
a flick of your porcelain wrists.
I am made of bone.
Eventual and useless.
Boiling.

I'm not a genius, I swear.
In fact, I used to have money.
I've seen a bit of America,
and I've seen a few
too many people.
It's all the same after a while.
Acres and faces,
you get the sinking feeling
that no one controls anything.
You get the idea.

Like peas and a plastic cup of cyanide,
release me,
please.

I'm a mess that can get up,
that scream the taste of you out of my
******* mouth.

I only live for one second,
and nobody sees me at night.
If they do they see something
beautiful at 3AM;
Something gorgeous and
wounded
like me.

Got the box in the mail,
tried to cry myself to sleep.
Stood me up 3 or 4 too many times,
and all I can do forgive you.
I'm not capable of much,
but I swear it's just
because I'm a princess

and no one wants to sweep me off my feet.

No one wants to face getting wounded for me.
They all want to test my armor,
but I'm dressed to impress
&
They stabbed me so many times
I was nearly stabbed to death.

I'm a mess and there's nobody here
quite wounded like me.

It's walking by you;
remembering you is worse
than seeing you now,

and I'm so *******
happy I could **** myself.
Waking up alone.

A message written
so small it barely even
is said to exist.

So when we're alone,
we'd likely feel it this time,
and more than hardly.

I don't know what made everybody this way,
but I hope it has nightmares.

For the record most of my writings are lies
and fickle emotions.
You can call me a hypocrite and I won't fight you.

I'm just being ****** to an audience;
It's so selfish to lash out and say I love you,
and I know it.

You'd never realize
how deep my heart is until
you're drowning in it.

Never saw the sun,
though bathed in sunlight daily.
Blind on the first day.

All lined up with nowhere to wait,
they seek a great escape.

One last perhaps

till the weekend's funds are all gone,
and we only sweat for rent.
If we get caught in the crossfire,
it's hardly a consequence.
Risk and reward are one and the same,
we just cant die on purpose, but we're

okay?

Masterful sighs and this concert in a
major key, takes a dive and like an addict
coming down it doesn't want to blame itself.
However, hands are bound and that train
cannot roll sideways, and we're gagging
on our tongues to pray to
mustache twirling villains,
"Oh my, God I don't believe in you,
but still, thank heavens it's all over!"
My family may say I have so much to give,
but everyone and everything is just
taking and exploiting the **** out of my life,
menial labor, minimum wage,
carbon-based education and where am I supposed
to hide?
I see the light at the end of the tunnel,
but I'm headed the wrong way.