the few, the proud, the nobodies

I drank my beers. I proposed a toast to myself in the dark. The moment of tradition was nice but fleeting. I lay down listening to Jack Kerouac spouting lines of consciousness streaming. None of it makes sense but it's a peek into the uncontrolled rantings of a great writer. I think he may have been on something when he wrote. I'm not sure what but I think I have had that feeling.
Cool was the breeze. Distant everything seemed.
The bones are in the earth
Im laying in the bed
neither of us knows
why images are burnt into my head
The air is in my lungs
tug of war with the atmosphere
all I know is everything
someone get me out of here
the plague is intelligence
and we all have the flu
saturated in the portrait
of nothing real untrue
The metal in the barrel
the powder in your bag
the stretch of run that cant help you escape
all of what you had

gone without remorse
leaving carnage behind
the more i wish I were more
the more I strain my mind
Your a soul with a vision
your a monster with your words
the diamonds in your eyes
are so bright they hurt

Your golden persona
a vagrant in the stream
salty fish with sharpened fins
just leave me be
It's a heart without an artery
a thumb without a hand
the harshness of living
will help you be a man
la la la
la la la
la la la la la la la la

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