Anxious about the blanket statements in each canvas I have painted.
When the panic at its quaintest strikes my nerves like meteors, and morning just ain’t worth waiting for,
and anguish, hubris and
But dated as the pity is, the clenching of fists, piss drunk on licks long past, it’s still not jaded as it should be, retains the blush of its many masks.
Self-reflection’s under-rated, but it’s the one second sober thought not feigned or simply rehashed.
So I put on my glasses and brace for collapse, try to see the world as if it’s overcompensated for its jewelry, cruelty in the eyes of she who wears it, and it’s my philisophical duty to counteract the facade, but barring some goddamn act of God, I’m semi-religiously lost as the rest of you, stealing fruit off the trees of EDEN, Adam trying to get even with snakes instead of Eve.
But for all the darkness, see the light, be the change, embody the desert, be oasis to your grief.
For all the bullshit, be reprieve.