Inside I see a life that I’ll never reach/ The world will
never hear of me, it’s no conspiracy/ It’s just the side that mirrors me/ Is
just a bit prettier, than me and all my heresy/ It’s not a secret, but its
tucked away in the open/ Figure for all my faults, you might not even notice/
Dreams aren’t tangible, so I turn cannibal/ Shuck and devour the light within fore
I what happened to/ Hope’s a precious thing, some take it for granted/ But
hope’s all I have for me to paint my
canvas/ A vagabond of the arts, hop lilipad, lilipad/ All in the hope for me to
scribe my Iliad/I’m a long-shot, no Bon Jovi hook/ Mumble up to God, kinda hope
that he looks/ Mom passes Xanax, says to cope with a book/ So I burn a couple
chapters, lace my blunt with the soot/
The ladder is for suckers/
Unravels into nothing/
Rather live vicarious
And stare at the chariots/
The ladder is for losers
Battling contusions
Of their own reality
Oh reality/
No Medicare, so it’s sugar pills/ Fantasize bout the steel
of a how a Ruger feel/ There’s a cure all, I’ll sure fall/ On the Brim rose
path, in another deterred stall/ But then the drive don’t turn off/ Going
nowhere fast as I continue to churn raw/ To try and succeed is a conundrum to
me/ A paradoxical box that shows nothing to me/ Man that success would be
something to see/ And without the thought of that, well what would I be?/
Homicide of dream happens all too often/ By unequivocally scared, that cower at
lofty/ Goals, tell Santa all I want is his coal/ So I can shield from the cold
as well as keeping it stoked/ That fire, that desire, to put my nose to the
grindstone/ And rip away at tissue for the chance that I might grow/
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