Alls well...in my Jail Cell
Brains damp with a weight of thoughts that clamp
my mind to my hand- my hand paralyzed by cramps
I can’t read nor breathe so my lungs feel diseased
I call but god told me I say his name in vain so he’s
left me- Too many topics on him I see it’s a nifty
excuse to excuse himself leaving me on edge & shifty
In a shitty prospect I see facets of life so right it’s wrong
one man’s a cop- a father but at night a fiend on a bong
a mother on crack- a sibling losing all his money on tracks
Not mine so I can’t relate- but sedated by the air I attack
governmental policies which lack practicality- & as such
suck so bad fuck morality- I’m only 19 & so much
skill has deserted me- I can’t write nor see- my eyes unclear
my ears covered; trachea smothered by fear I steer near
remains of past projects- last prospects of mapped onsets
but it’s all not set- I read but I type fucked shit so lost its
cost-ed me losses against false bosses so cosy in their writing
it seems there’s also puppet writers biting others fighting
wack wars to attack they paste scripts so addicted to derelict
skills to be fixed by handicapped bitches writing who reelect
Scores of idols to idolize while others lay on all fours
taking it up unsavoury holes these whores grace the floors
So I sit and watch… and from far I see them move to grooves
& in the nooks & crannies are skeletal specters who boot
their blues- so I cry tears of blood- bloody faced near above
my head is a halo- not real just a papier-mâché near enough
it’s strings stuck to lapels- with knifes stuck in navels
and the navel army writes home glorious fables of Naples
So it seems all’s false- no allies here B, all’s lost hope
so My mistress returns- depression nearing me but why mope?
When tension and stress are my Ménage à trois antidote to cope
with all but nope- I can’t so my skill slope slowly halts who knows
to show the pauper I was a king but now I sleep deep in bed
my head filled with ideas I can’t pen so I leave them dead…Pz.