This is no way to live
but it is most definitely
a way to die.
I'm tripping fanatic.
Your candy-coated breath
tastes accidental,
burns oxygen glances
with kisses on asphalt.
We're terminal concrete,
containing ghosts
in boxes shaped like glass,
fading memories of silence
shaped like childhood.
This isn't so much a warning
as it is a promise.
A promise is a promise is a...
This isn't so much a promise
as it is a threat.
I'm all about the tragedy
of forcing smiles
and transfixing depression
with every twitch of the wrist
with every fix of the century
(in any circle you'll grant me)
((in any circus you'll find me)).
I am the overbearing God reject,
a compulsive excuse for irony,
a pitiful one for passion.
I am the underwelcomed guest,
overtly whelmed and catatonic,
expertly unaware of my surroundings
and, by all accounts, my downfall,
in a sea of refusals,
tripping on waves, choking on syntax,
dripping with sarcastic sincerity.
This is no way to live...