Hurdling Sawhorses

Rhyme is the road-block in the path I should be following
Yeah a good back-track might serve right
So sings the melody, but
Then perhaps backing-down belongs to pop-culture, Misleading and painted in grays
The heartbeat of rhythm I feel in time
Where my pulse resides
Tell me what's hip?
Empty notoreity

Why should I fit the formula
And count off my days of conformity?
I'd rather be a color; bolder
Than living this black and white border
And so I am hurdling sawhorses

How many more will become a statistic?
After all you have a brain
I beg you to enlist it
That human attribute that distinguishes us so well
So learn a bit and hip this shit or sink beneath the veil

Passion puts the stop in my pen
Coagulation where there should be only flowing
Perhaps I'll write no history tonight
So sings uncertainty, but
Faux arts belong to popular culture,
A benediction sure to amaze
So when my tongue offers nothing so asinine
Still there my pulse resides
Tell me what's hip?
Raucous superfluity.