Creativity is a sickness to which there is no cure
Even if the creative spirit is not prolific enough
To churn out multitudes of artistry upon the world
The sickness still manifests itself
...
Vulgarity is dependent on the ownership of offence, heralded by someone who seeks to rid the world of foulness due to their own sensitivity.
Are you offended by my actions?
My foul language?
Or some of the other disgusting habits I imitate whether in public or at home? In the street? Or in bed?
...
Here is your playground
Apiece of history
Spat out to reveal council estates
All night gold emporiums
...
Same old thing
With brand new financiers
Don't take me to your side
Don't stand from your seat when I enter the room
...
Running scared like the lonely ones
No concept of time
Unsure of which shoe goes on which foot
Or which knife to wield the glimmering knife around in
...
You could have been a killer
But you never learnt to wipe the blood from your hands properly
This whole situation bugs me
As I find a microphone to scream down
...
The rival is screaming about freedom
There are no morals here
just scary monsters
The possibilities are limitless
...
There are other worlds far more beautiful than this
Worlds filled with valor, honor, corruption and romance
Seedy, violent escapades that embitter the souls of men and women
That are in constant search of new worlds
...
An audacious search through dirty letters
Truthful declarations
And articles about bed-wetters
Voraciously engrossed
...
The revolutionary hitman
The pseudo Symmetrical drunk punk
Who lies in wait by the tower houses
Of last nights raid
...