I hate myself for it


Im scuffed like the pair of converse on my bedroom floor

Slid on pavement, hardly fluid

Im dirty and worn from unrelenting use

Walking in parks
Stepping in mud
Soles Arent white anymore
Soul isnt white anymore

Laces are shredded like
relationships

Buy some new ones
They look pretty
Theyre not the same though

Fabric is torn
The concrete wasnt kind to it
Wasnt kind to me

All scraped up
Face down, breath gone
Aesthetics are hardly of concern
They were thrown out long ago

My thoughts always deviate
Loop around and dont come back
An mp3 and audio jack

Why does it take a million words
For one feeling?
Time is death
My life its stealing

Rhyming is nice when words want it
Rules are nice
Guidelines are more preferable
No need for the black string that makes a line

Absolution, nice in theory
Not true though
Reality doesnt appease

Evolution of thoughts that wanted to become thoughts to be

Chaos is all I get
No solace in this field, kind sir
Just reaping and scarecrows
Maybe a few birds
They die soon enough

I'm the fly and the worlds the swatter
Cheap plastic, yes
But it gets the job done

One less mouth to feed
One less voice to hear in the static

I live in illusions fueled by myths
be my mechanic
Fix me up
I'm not that converse anymore
I'm something more

Its all about going from
A to B, they said
Why cant it be F?, I ask

In the end they're all just words
I'm just a boy with a couple of dreams, two hands, and a couple of legs
They work
Whatever 'work' means