Every time I think I’m fine, I seem to cauterize my brain, like it’s my life on the line, while my daughter writhes in pain.
It’s a strange game.
Am I squandering my talents or embarked on a mistake?
What’s with wandering through dalliance if the hearts don’t break, or even take?
If I’m all alone in this universe, am I all but prone to this chorus-verse-chorus?
It's a big if, a big or if/or/and or and/or but.
But I wont take a stand 'til she takes a strut.
Rut abuts smut.
I'm a tad bit too pedantic on the topic of disease, sick of sycophantic phantoms clinging to antiquities.
Is my oil old? Do my serpents shine?
As I ease control, was it ever mine to decline?
Well it’s harder to be honest than it seems like it should be, and it's hard to be an artist living so externally.
On accident succeeded, so, incidentally, failed.
When the track go on repeat it’s like it’s meant to be derailed.
Societal pressure all too familial. That snide little lecture: “You can have fun until you’ll need more money, a job, raison d'être, or a kid.”
I shouldn’t let it affect me but I wish that’s all that it did.
Friends always fleeting, never feeding the flame.
Isolation as a boon, disillusion as a bane.
There's no solution but locution of refuse and pusillanimous animus; ambagious absence of the azygous vein.
So I'm hunting through hurt in the search of a spine.
Every clump of dirt, I claim as mine, mine, mine.
There was a time when I was able to escape from my own mind.