We are the facilitators of our own creation

They’re aiming for the sane
We’re aiming to only astound
Aiming for the profound
Ditching the scope to point blank the right now
Ditching all my hope
Sniffing all my coke
Fuck the direction off life so it never really knows where it’s going.
Throw thirty bags in the air
Look baby it’s snowing
Look baby I’m hoping
Look baby I may be crook and shady but I tend to keep that tight thing flowing
Waterfalls waterfalls
I’m floating in your waterfalls
After-all we’re just some young people who fucking know it all
Chasing dreams
High from weed
Running but we’re loving
Every little inch of it
Never know what pen to pick, when I write this intricate
When I write this spoken word, my brain just gets to ultra nerd
My brain just gets to focus worse
These thoughts will never stop
These thoughts more useless than the Bible I keep on my bedside surface top
But just like my Bible, they help me understand who’s real or not
I lay in bed and hold my head
Quiet my thoughts with stupid shit
Hoping one day I’ll be super rich
Like that fucking matters
We all saw what money did to the great Marshall Mathers
I’m about to dump my own body in this foreign lake
My own body but in a foreign state
My own body in a foreign place
Blood all over my boot
Blood all over my boots
Should have known that with that gun I was only going to shoot
Should have known Lord that if you strip me of life I will only return to loot
Now people are finding out that I’m into this music shit.
I don’t need your nod of approval to know that you are feeling it
For only a select few only know what it is I feel
For the rest of you, eat my dick like them yellow fruits you peel.

Let me be me
It’s the only way I know
Let me explore
I want to be the highest
Too focused, one word
Inks and silks - mix me up
Make things look good.
Soldier of creativity
keeper of unfinished ideas
Inks pour
Wizard of ergonomic or rectilinear traces.
Artist without definition.
Carpenter of unsolved mazes.
mixMEup
Astrologer of the power of the third eye and silent friend .
Academic of shapes -
Slave a traveler without reestablished compass.
Intense reader of all clouds an experimental writer on open minds
psychopath!

I’m trying to peice together the universe.
x2 hallucinogens, still trying.
Not buying these written explanations.
Is everything just hidden?
Are we living in a riddle or am
I just stuck in the middle?
Is this a game?
5.4.3 are we stuck in a game, a dark dispiriting game where there is no exit.
11:11 is telling me to accept the world.
Puzzles just do not fit.
Maybe she will just have another hit.
Another hit for her to feel sane.
Outside its raining.
Inside it’s dark
She still thinking how she’s going to make a mark in this game.
Trapped under the mark of a false accusation.
21 and trying to answer all my own questions.
His 23 and telling me I new to find my own answers.
Then there’s Joe Empire who is as tall as the Empire State but yet telling me to “fuck the elite”.
He repeats his in the dead fucking centre looking around.
Asks have I ever seen a newborn baby kill a grown man?
That’s an analogy for the way the world make him react
My innocence been dead.

You want me to share your umbrella?
Fuck you, I prefer the storm.
Yes it’s cold, loud and unadulterated but it’s real.
I’d rather die confronting the real then survive the facade.
I stand to the left of your umbrella not only because I choose to have nothing to do with you but because your umbrella is ugly.
It does not compliment my composition.
It does not tell my story .
It’s arch is too perfect.
Not even my own umbrella can tell my story.
Not one word can verbalise my pain.
I produce sound and although these sounds are of my own creation, the rhythm does not resonate.
No picture can depict my struggle.
No laugh can display my insecurity.
The material world is too constricted for my liking.
All I have is my imagination and it’s yelling:
Oh how I hate people for conforming
A land built for giants yet it only has midgets swarming
A land for greatness yet, exponentially, failures spawning
So we turn to religion
A foreign set of rules so absurd we create faith to justify it.
A concept so unreal, only the unreal can clarify it.

To face one self’s is confrontation rimming on the abyss of intrusion.
Almost as if my image knows something about me that I don’t.
Refusing to admit nor confess
Refusing to please nor apologies
To treat lightly
To inhale
To breathe
To be human (whatever the fuck that means)
To give in to the paradox that in order to live, you must be.
Someone explain to me, please.
How one is supposed to [be] when we outcast the individual.
Ridicule the peculiar.
Merge the distinct.
And most crimson of all, grayscale the colored.
Is it a prerequisite to clip my wings before walking with the test?
Must I kill the light of my vibrancy to reside with the dull?
Will you only accept me once I’ve pleased the requirements of the elite?
Fuck THE elite.