My soles are exposed
And my toes are in action
The satisfaction of hitting the pills
Will be the end of my power...
In the next eight hours-
Life is like digging through a grocery store cooler.
It's a rule of thumb-
Don't do it
But what about wanting the best that there is?
And wanting to live on the streets of Paris-
There just isn't enough the world has to offer me
Though it appears in this mechanical monstrosity-
I somehow keep the beat.
Who says substance holds you back
The simple lack of it gets to me
I'm a writer, you see...
Therefore I'm allowed to trip
It's hip to be cool
And cold to be...to be...
Talk about insanity...
What kind of society pays for their oil?
The coil of our problems-
Like tinfoil hats and alien invasions
The simple sensation of abnormality
Totally depletes the like.
Give me the mic...
And I might just throw up blood.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.