Walking to work
I can’t be an artist without cigarettes.
You can’t be imaginative without booze.
You can’t speak truth without rhymes.
You can’t melt into brains without paint.
I can’t be happy and be a writer.
No one cares if there isn’t a chance your finger will slip.
You can give me all the anti depressants you want but I won’t take them.
If I start to care about myself,
No one else will.
If I don’t spend my last dime on a sack
You won’t care that I’m saving something.
God doesn’t read my poems.
The devil could care less of my art.
If I write a book it would be sold at my funeral
So Ill pass on profits in hope to gain closure.
I don’t want to be a dying star.
If you keep my name under your tongue I’ll make you stuck in your seat.
If you pack me in your brain
I will keep you at home.
I’m a cancerous writer who will
Only make your mom cry
Because I drove you into depression
By making mine appear artistic.
I’m tightening the rope on your throat
And I plan on kicking out the fucking chair.