my problem IS giving a fuck, never living it up,
lyrically un-binding,
too busy rhyming about rhythm and stuff,
vitamins stuffed into canals where my ligaments cut,
pulling myself together with the barrel of a derringer snub,
i planted seeds. for a rest. the flowerbed is enough,
in bed we discussed how pillow talk makes no sense if it's just
casual. causal? cause and effect is a cunt.
i bit down on the only bitch that verily loved,
edible love. more or less, less is moor?
moors were never enough,
tracing ancestry by design of cerebral touch;
i notice my level's above. but i tend to be stuck,
clean-cut, mean-mugged, while dragging legs through the mud.
i'm astounding.
i'm a sound in a vacuum. or something.
you're vacuous.
you're pouting. you're vapid. you're nothing.
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