The drugs I’m taking for my back are wiping me out.
I’m a space cadet looking for a suitable planet to call home.
If you’re going to be a tried and true artist you must sacrifice everything.
This isn’t some romantic notion or ploy to entice someone into a bear trap.
Everything is a chore as life is presented to me as a coat of arms and I fight the unreality of being boxed in or hugged by a Westworld robot.
Let’s stop the chit chat and get down to the reality of a one-two-punch and being laid out like an action painting or catalog not even worth wiping your ass with.
Fuck power and money and the secrets shared behind closed doors by very small individuals who have no empathy whatsoever or concept of what is truly real versus what’s virtual reality.
I have never felt comfortable in the shower. Are there directions on how to properly wash oneself?
Too much slight of hand and orifices just out of reach. I feel like it’s a game of tic-tac-toe I’ll never win.
I thought Dr. Oz was exposed as a fraud and the Tinman was just another anti-hero looking for a protagonist to take advantage of.
So much shit flying everywhere, not sure I’ll ever feel at peace again.
The terrorists won, inducing fear into our baby talk and every other mode of conversation including pig Latin and psychobabble.
You want the truth? Well I’ll tell you the last time I husked the truth I was on another planet where everyone dressed alike and that metallic taste in your mouth meant you were home sweet home.