Stoop steps and creaky old wooden floor boards
have always said to me:
“Love and happiness doesn’t always exist for people.”
I ended up dragging those words into cardiac arrest.
which is funny because isn’t rum supposed to remedy that?
Cirrhosis on the brain
A mind is a terrible thing to waste [sic].
Time is dreary like getting up for the last four hours before going back to bed
And lord knows I’ve been hoping for a souvenir at the end of this tunnel. Faith restricted.
Now you know that shit don’t exist for everyone. How could it?
All we ever see ‘round these part is bullet-holes walking around and shells slowly making their way down the street to life’s next meeting?
Maybe it’s too hot to live here
Maybe I’m gone
Shut the fuck up.
We don’t have time to waste like that,
We trying to find some life in all the concrete
Maybe you’re just filament
Bond agent, bonding agent,
I’d pill press you too if you’d let me
Set you through the ringer
Get high off you,
Or maybe you’ve already been smoked.
Careful of the man at the end of the dark room. You can tell just by his arms that he isn’t in the mood for straight talk. But he wouldn’t hesitate for a revolution if I’d ever seen one.
If only Williamsburg wasn’t a fester for hipster proto-Nazis.
You know it’s crazy out here when waking up is revenge for pound-sign names
when the devil don’t know evil no more
when Alabaster gem stones speak evil without knowing
when a house plant wilts mid-July
when kids have to drag their parents home
when parents have to drug their hope away
when fake guns splash red on cardboard souls
when real ones bloom roses on concrete stages
Roses ain’t nothing to name drop, son.
That’s how the hipsters get you
Mausoleum and all