Self-Centricity, in stages

[dead man]

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I've tried to be happy. tried a coke and a smile
but i can't shake the feeling that my hope is denial
and i'm sorry for changing. that i'm socially wild
but when it's only us i'm more like an emotional child
at a festival surrounded by excitement and sound
lonelier than ever as i followed the crowd
met a stranger by the willow tree. he loaned me a light
we talked, tobacco molten delight. smoke in the night
he too, felt disconnected, but accepted the distance
like, it all gets so old. the drugs, the tension, the bitches
the love, the pressure, the systems
like nothing's better than sickness.
i like to be alone sometimes but friends are persistent
calculating interactions. analytic and strange
inhibited, sane. aware. i miss my primitive brain
if you think, you think too much about the tiniest task
pour your pint in a flask and toast the moment.
if you like your coffee black, wine white in your glass
it's a sign of the times, zeitgeist approaches.
there's a color to music that gives it texture and taste
i've recycled time enough to know it's better to waste
i've devolved into a prototype. repetitive, fake
it was over the second they gave the devil a face.
my demons are dollars. endorsements, checking at Chase
spent on any substance that presents an escape.
i'm evil. stupid. selfish. all those negative traits
but i'm centered. almost perfect. true perfection awaits
passion in these parables, poetic for praise
it's a proper alternative to repressive malaise
it's pain but not exactly cause it's pleasant at times
adrenaline rushes from looking death in her eyes
there's not a sedative high that can compare to success
not a failure that can measure up to marital stress
sometimes what's truly beautiful is fairly depressed
and purity is found inside a terrible mess
prepare for the next. compressing air in your chest
i say whatever comes to mind. but say it in jest
naked, her breasts were Marilyn, yes - Monroe in her prime
I guess Gentleman Prefer a woman loaded with Skyy.
cornucopia, the joker's card that nobody plays
huffing nitrous til we float, like parades. moles in a cage
prayer wasn't enough to wash my clothes in the rain
it didn't save my homie from the coma, he stayed
no destination headed like a road to the Gray
place your coat on a hanger. welcome home, it's been ages
i'm supposed to be famous. Dead men are media martyrs
camera crews to black spoons inside a seedy apartment
spirit departed, what a cliche. shotgun shell in your face
watch me smile. iAm the devil's embrace.





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