dope sick

something about sitting

in the street.

or on a sofa.

something.

no, someone,

sick with it.

dried up, dripping

sick with it.

you wouldnt know it if it

was painted on you like a

mural of a murder scene.

your green grass and

littered lips.

your bold body,

holding like a cannon

in the Seven Years’ War.

patriot.

pardon me.

im drenched in sedition.

sorrys.

its the streets.

they washed away

an army of me.

40 bats to the hat.

youd be different too.

maybe its the medicine.

or the weakness of wanting.

whatever, i was thinking

about a time that was taken

too far.

you cant blurt those things out.

its like asking the rain to

bathe in its own blood.

its brutal and stupid and

know one cares to know

more than theyre aware of.

it was a time.

it was just a time.

so I started to see.

a heaviness,

a difference,

a distaste.

a strong objection.

i didnt ask to be part of it

but since i am

i may as well

say something about the way

in which a person

with piercing particles

of the past has to

sing in the same

tempo as the

people pretending it never

happened.

we were made from different

mud and

i dont like being dirty.

its simple to stay away.

unless of course your

life depends

on it.

which it does.

indefinitely.

take a gummie or some shit.

i still love you enough.

a perfectly American

ending.

Wabsite