I pick fights with words when I wrestle with thoughts
Blessed are not the stressors when they're messed up and cought
I write, shoot for the moon, but I'm missin' the stars
I got lyrics in my throat leavin' me sicker than SARS
This is what I call the permissive block
Of the lyrics, the prophetic of most depressing of thoughts
I have no way of hiding my heart on my sleve
Parts of me leave, leaving parts the hardest to see.
I'm lost in the eve of destruction and I can't scream for help
They can't see my pain hidden behind my wealth
Im in despair, look at my past work. It's right there.
Either it's too esoteric or the readers don't care.
Note after note, scribbles of suicide letters
Confused as poems and viewed as nothing else better
Still, I must remember to live and write again
Live my life again until I die by the pen.
I try to exert my anger in between the pages lines
Before I'm driven to suicide by the most sane of minds
Within insane times, so I gotta get it out
Make it clear so even the denses of readers have no doubts
Come and see about me before it's way to late.
The death of the infinitum ironic at the wake.
I see no means to escape instead of through the pens mark
But even then I'm lost because I miss the benchmark
I scribe not at the level of greats,
And I possess not the patience to wait
So I'll kill myself now, leave the notebook open.
Bleed upon the pages.
It's my final poem...