| Portraits of a madman |
| I. Someday, when I am finished surviving and begin to live. Perhaps, I will see your hand. Those whom I profess to know, I have never really seen. The grime of my existence has caked my eyes, and so, I do not see their smiles. Experience has taught me, where to play my cards. I want to wash in new happiness, but will I drown, or could you teach me to swim? II. I am work frozen, Dammed it all And damned for all. Racked and broken, Twisted fast. I am brazen, branded coals That smoke. III. Where is our great war; Our defining moment? There isn't one, Not even a cold one, The communists are gone. We, the new lost generation, Stand beating our fists against the walls. Living in low-rent apartments, At middle income rates, buying IKEA and trying to be the next high school millionaire. The American Dream is a piece Of the world economy and, despite our Beatings, The walls wont fall. We have only two instincts left: Kicking a man when he's down, And playing the lottery. |