/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 lily-pad, lily-pad/ 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/