im a bug, trying to win the favor of a fucking hurricane
why cant i do what i wanna do all the time?
bored with my position, my wild suppositions
might be right? might be mutual?
might be just, and not habitual?
stored in my position, is a wild composition
might be valid? might be wanted?
might be just and not just haunted?
glorified in my position, every type of inhibition
might be discarded? might be lost?
might be just and not just tossed?
stored in my position, is some wild ammunition
might be appealing? might be saught after?
not just a net for caught laughter?
yes the herb’s superb but will it get you off the curb? will it separate you, will they commemorate you for your efforts? effortless, no skill, just pills, and a dime bag with no dimes, good times, bad rhyme skills, but hey
im white, so it’s right that i lack the flow, but instead of complaining, instead of refraining from gaining some improvement, some movement in the right direction, not the white direction, i keep going, i keep showing like a pregnant girl, im indignant girl, despite my pigment, hurl me off a cliff and watch me bounce
I can tell
I can TELL
I’m a hard sell
I’m a hard cell
No osmosis for me
No mimosas to see
Clamoring to be
The kid people postpone plans for
That people wash their hands for
Abandon their man for
So distinguished, with a powder that could entirely extinguish the sun.
A build that could force architects to their suicide, but at least they blue print their own disaster.
Tips and cliffs perfectly placed, suggesting an end to the negative space.
Any man could be convinced of God given such a view of such a landscape.
And there I is, pioneer, spying through a grand glass tube, smudged and broke in the middle.
Farting from boat to boat, calling myself a Bullseye dart when im naught but a domino.
Can’t it just be labeled as genuine and not boring and pedantic? Can’t they throw some sticky notes that don’t leave residue on your windshield? Can’t I have exactly what I want exactly when I want it? Can’t I have the seas part for me and no one else?
Not for lack of trying, I’ve failed at becoming the best thing God created, failed at even showing promise.
Gumption and heart have no place on Mt. Olympus, they belong in rib cages and classrooms.
I see my hip bones getting weaker, I feel the silver deposits lessening inside me.
It isn’t all that bad, resigning, just not as exciting as everything else.
Less stress.
