Wasted too many days portraying a lousy slave
At 25 years of age, ain't shit changed
Afraid of the way that I've paved with my education, and the refusal to be complacent, creation became the only safety that I could find
Now, I blindly follow the fine line between being overly lazy and a thriving mind enlightened enough to encite someone to think for themselves with the way I spin, or tell, my stories
And destroy poetry
And go over things in my head until they no longer make sense, and my soul was left bleeding to death while rested on top of a desk that is covered with blank pages
Except for one last blood stained wish
"I wish the artists would get mandatory livable wages"
