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Turn The Speakers Off

By fear of being myself amongst demons walking in the flesh.
By vessels emptied of their heart and soul,
As I watch those akin to my blood become just like them…

Would call them family,
That would require loyalty and change at a price only God can set.
Being pennywise,
I only have enough for myself as man pressured by the stress,
Of being cornered on a curbside drowned by the downpour of tears I’ve bottled in a chest,
Full of treasures I’m quite hesitant to reveal…

Who knows.
I do know that I’m threw dozing off,
Promising myself I’ll never lose hope,
Like each time I reached for a bottle of booze known to cause death while alive…

“Most die at 25,
We just bury them at 75,”
Is a quote stuck in my head while I try my best to survive,
What feels like a Tundra meant for a cold-blooded beast!
Where grasslands are covered in a white sheath of lies.
A grave for ideas planted in the name of love to suffice,
Our need for love stuck within a “vice grip…

Can’t you see that the problem is the reality you lie in?
Turn the radio on,
Future’s wrapped around our heads till we’re passed out around a cup of lean and a pill inside of it.
Either red or blue manifesting the ignorance we prefer to keep hiding in…

How about every “little” rapper rapping with a will to distract you from your focus.
Ambitions waning while replaced with a dream full of cash money,
Ass bouncing every moment.
A blunt in place of a pen,
Too wheezy after every puff to a dome,
Incapacitated by the smoke greedily withholding,
An image known to dissipate after every hit taken…

All of your potential traded for the life of a pot head!
Eyelids open and tear from so much gas pumping through my nose,
As I fall.
Passed out inside of nightmares I don’t want to have,
As I crawl.
From raging monsters salivating for the sweetest end of my dream in a crucial escape as I wake,
Violently swimming within endless streams of sweat dripping from my face,
Pain I’ve wrought on myself at the cost of,
Dimes that wouldn’t help pay for my sins,
At loss of,

Words of grace we often lose when your mother condemns your voice.
When your Father disappears and leaves a void,
Deeper than each wound bleeding from every horrid choice,
Made because of noise you should’ve tuned out to enjoy,
The embrace of your best friend instead of each knife gutting every smile with an implosion so possible to avoid…

I can’t really tell.
With my own heart singed by the Hell I’ve ignited,
I’m still seeking resolution to a question demanding my silence.
Medicine for exigent matters we are indebted to resolve,
Rather than settling for vibes glorified in,
Those clubs and bars that never display their fine print.
1,000 ways to die announced through their speakers while you get in line with,
Everybody else!
Part of the show until you act up and,
Find yourself cornered just,
Begging for help…

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