in another
attempt to put pen to paper
i plot a course
as ideas are omnipresent
but today I'm filled with contempt
cuz there's an ominous cloud
hovering about
making things a wee bit murky
and without a pronounced vibe
as the vehicle
these jagged musings
just linger in the labyrinth of the mind
echoing in the halls
of this endless cathedral
banging in rebellion
against invisible walls
antagonists of a sooted soul
awaiting combustion
hence no linear frame of thought
I'm told to just follow the bouncing ball
my muse is a fucking sadist i tell ya
amused by my childlike endeavors
awakening between dimensions
chasing remnants of ambiguous dreams
like so many bubbles floating about
can only pick one at a time
handle with care
or it's bound to burst
now watch this juggling act
performed by a natural born klutz
fuck
amazed that anything ever gets done
i'm forever undone
psalms remains unsung
some 20 years and counting
my hung jury still deliberating
instead of liberating me
as the sands of this human hourglass
grate against the psyche...
a likely candidate for the rubber room
an undercover psychotic
i got it bad
hiding my insanity in plain sight
'such a nice young man'
yeah right
walk a mile in these shoes
and discover my civility was just a ruse
i was hoping to pass through
without incident
stuck between realms
with hands glued to a whimsical pen
one day I'm basking in the sun
the next I'm praying for the apocalypse
cuz one of my wandering warlocks
hates this fuckin place
it's like
the clash of titans inside here i swear
with an insidious inside joke being played
cuz someone had the nerve
to name me Prometheus
but to this day
i still ain't get the damned memo...
they tell me it's just a harmless rumor
but i think my alter ego
is talkin shit behind my back
when i catch up with his ass
there's gonna be a misunderstanding
probably stab him in the jugular
with my pen
then maybe I'll be able to think straight
instead of drinkin straight
with no chaser
to soothe my anxiety
I'm a hot mess
i confess
can't tell the difference between
scripture and scribble
don't really know
where these words are going
maybe I'm the author
maybe there's a ghostwriter movin my hand
tryin to write my epitaph on the low
feels like oppression through possession
caught up in the poetic version
of fight club
who's pulling whose strings?
i know i've been undermined
too much shit remains undefined
who speaks when the pen leaks?
who seeks to breathe through these scriptures?
am i simply a mannequin who
dons multiple masks of unknown entities
or am i my own man?
i let you tell it
