I. wake up, take up my sword cause dawn is my enemy
especially after a night of bong hits and Hennessy 
dragons breath of fresh air conditioning shampoo
shower off the old me, I feel brand-new, been told to
fake it until you make it, a pagan of ritual statements
or basis of comatose, and web-toed homosapiens
sad status of stasis, from weekends of complacency 
like a chicken being basted and rotated in a rotisserie 
they like to call me a hermit, I like to call me determined
I like to think I'm subdued, controlling which emotions I permit
the world to view, it's true the first impressions never lessened
second to second I'm second guessing which foot to step with 
my Grandma used to kiss me on the head and bless my heart
Looked down at my palm, my head and heart lines intersected from the start
and From then on, departed from religious realms  
back to the insidious waters of the Sticks Hell, at the helm

maybe i just need to calm down
and absorb this information for awhile
i've been doing things the wrong way
staying up all night, sleeping in all day
it's complicated

maybe i just need to get a life
bought a plant, watched it sit in   earth for awhile
I've been doing things like i'm insane
sitting alone in the living room again
it's complicated

I, stencil sentiments in sentences for repentance 
Celsius centigrade rising in significant increments 
when a pen I grip, ink boils, pores sweat like
condensation, water droplets turn into stalagmites
brain hurricane, mind moving at a mile an hour
showers pour, as I transform cells and mitochondria
microorganisms suspended in animation
homicide by deliberate dehydration, 
inspiration, so I can paint these pictures, like Salvador Dali, 
a little different probably cause my canvas is a beat from Bengali
with a voice from above, that parts clouds, and draws crowds
don't even need one mic, or one shot, just one sound
send the sheep to slaughter for our fore fathers, yet
when we elect him for Change we get back debt
retroactive, as far as my vision can deceive
I believe to see things that aren't real to me

I, sit in dark rooms, creating ink blots to read
Rorschach in the back, with a cigarette awkwardly
set between his lips, his silhouette, reluctantly sweeps
across the light from lamp he's using, with each movement, shadows dance
consumed  light replaced by his stance, obstructed glance
by chance I see the red ball bounce, entrenched in a trance
dream state, that's my cue when I'm dreaming Lucid
to awake and face the sun, and walk across it's surface






It's Complicated prod. by Preference

ThisisLEGiT