[Eviction]

good luck getting votes

"Which would be worse, to live a monster or die as a good man?" Shutter Island, 2010


A real monster lurks in the shadows or gallows beyond the grave.
An exoskeleton of the modern-day, so you breathe in toxic waste.
A monster can come in many forms, the man or your chronic pain.
When there’s a lot on your plate, a good man would concentrate,
On the culture, mold it so it’s not as fake; look through his dossier.
It’s proof that everyone is a monster, or a good man to exonerate.
I tried to describe my Leviathan, but I’ll never be able to find the words.
This hostile environment has me on high alert, it caused quite the stir,
Fighting behemoths, dying of thirst, a win would only be a minor perk.
You’re a monster if you have to fuck over the good guy to line your purse,
It makes you question your time on earth if monster is the title you earn.
For every colossus, there’s a crooked politician that’ll strike a vital nerve.
We entered a grey zone, this subject is unhealthy like when you chain smoke.
You leave this world a good man, but what does it say on the gravestone?
It’s this evil you take home, if you let it get to you, you’re a scapegoat.
Paraphernalia sitting on the mantal to ward of these evil spirits; case closed?
Or did you just create a facade, so you can complain about your broken halo?
The monster is always on the payroll, the good man is just a grace note.
With no trace of hope, you play with the ouija board so you stay relevant.
These stories about monsters was your bread and butter, your element.
Why do you write about the devil with eloquence, the fixation is evident.
If you continue to stay on the topic of hell, you will become a resident,
The monsters get a statue, the only thing a good man leaves is his skeleton.
If you use the repellent, maybe you're the first good man elected president.
If you feed the monster after dark, you will see the phlegm he coughs up.
You imagine the worst, I see the beauty, to me a monster is a foxglove,
I threw the demon table scraps, that only gives it strength in the long run.
I’ll let it feast in the midnight hours, whatever it takes to gets the job done.
The good man is taking the back seat, the monster is always riding shotgun.
You don’t want to starve the beast, even if you’re on the menu at his potluck.
A monster is celebrated, a good man is spit on and respect is hard to earn.
It’s the man that jumps in front of your pontiac, after you make that sharp turn.
It’s the bartender pouring bourbon, he don’t know you’ll never learn…
His heavy hand emptying gasoline, he’s just not there when the carpet burns.
He’s not there when officers pull you over and smell whiskey as you start to slur.
He’s not there when you’re lost for words, or when you caught at your worse.
The monster is the drug dealer, he just won’t let you chop lines on his table.
You have to deal with this addiction alone, a good story is only a fable.
The monster is inebriated when you overdose and the diagnoses are fatal.
The monster with a broken halo, it’s true he used to have qualities of an angel,
Sometimes being the good guy is painful, especially if that’s your only label.
Betrayal made the good guy faithful, now the pros and cons are tangled.
If you desensitize and look past the evil, maybe his monster is cosplay.
Maybe he’ll help you through that long day, or guide you from the wrong way.
When “those bad thoughts” dominate, and fog in your brain hits like octane.
He’s here for a brief window, and won’t belittle you because of your lost faith.
You can blame your catatonic state if you regret when the monster gone astray.
A good man can look grotesque too, while the monster is wearing a dog chain.
I should just simp out for the theater popcorn, that’s where my heart's set.
I’m probably sharing my milk duds with the monster, is that far-fetched?
You look at me like you’re a target and you’re the one I’m going to harm next.
I called you a monster because you asked me, you wanted your palm read.
Slow dance with this derelict, the song ended with my intentions hard pressed.
This “good man” has felonies on his record, that’s longer than my armrest.
If I’m a monster that doesn’t mean I have to button up for your boat show.
Toughing up for the cold snow, a good man runs from the blown smoke.
This world is a fucking mess when I die I don’t want to leave it scattered.
I know I’m on the brink of demise, I have panic attacks and I’m breathing faster.
I don’t think about giving up, only the victims when I see them battered.
The bible? Really… What am I going to accomplish from reading chapters…
I can die a good man or a monster, in the end, it doesn’t even matter.