A schizophrenic panic induced
By a wickedest villainess,
Enduring a sick plight
At the worlds end,
In the middle of the night.
I board the flight
With just a carry on,
With a martinet in check,
That I keep inside my front pocket,
While marionette strings feed
My inner need for something
More than just musical inspiration
Or the background noise realization
Might tip me over the bleak
Black ending at the edge of my sanity.
Vanity never vain
But contained inside a vessel
That struggles and tussles
Without the muscle to wrestle.
Edgar Allan Poe on dope
Is where you can place your hope,
Complacent with a compatible
Combatant with gladiator gear
And acne.
Just hope he doesn't choke
At this end of the world,
Via axing.
Acting couldn't help you
Through this hell;
It's all you got.
The devil has never let go
Of what he held;
Your only God.
I've been to the world and back,
Dante's inferno and cloud nine,
Sitting on this magic carpet with owl hats.
Talking smack at the galaxy,
To ensure ET doesn't make it home
And his ship raughts.
I rock crooked on the ground,
Stuffing hostages into socks
So their fragrant screams can't escape.
Like yesterday's appendix,
I use to have point but now I'm useless.
On the ground finding myself
Like shovel to dirt,
Turn over the hurt
And let the other side cook.
Then condition your mind to listen
To the kitchen talk
Where the meat is my demons
And the eggs are the thoughts that never made it.
As whispers tell me I'm in over my head,
I reply with a
"No worries, he's dead."
And then I'm fed.
