Black clouds and helicopters circle my nouns, vyin to strike me-
Im dying to be caught, drivin around in my thoughts-
Profound Joe Pesci verbs distrub my silence, theres dead gangsters in my trunk thought dead-
I brought butcher knifes for show, stabbin my flow with lead-
Im a penetrating anger, a soft killer-dreaming in bed im really a Frank Miller character soothing blood spiller-
Bad bitches surround me, and I can only think my minds clowning me-
The profound imagery doesn't make sense to me, no plot, no theme-
Eventually I'll rip up the page, gauge my sanity potentially see my own vanity-
So for now Im skippin class smokin black and milds on my ass-
Eyein Mariachi flicks-
Its all a game, gods a comedian, slowly dying of an insecurity fix-
They care too much, reachin with all their arms out like Nazis, throwin lifevests and crucafixes won't stop me-
Freewill and a conscious, its a dangerous pill to swallow-
Deep but hollow, writing self misery tales, its the same old drill, thats the easy way out-
Mentally ill intellectuals arent vexed, played out like myspace layouts-
Real fiction gets respect, you aint a writer, just a lonely biter with a beat thinking youre next-
Youre the guilty face, a walking suicide note, scare to find its place-
Living filthy cause youre scared to see how success will taste-
While I'm too fond of the game, I'd rather fuck up to show that I'm smart enough to really understand the pain-

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"Every Golden Age is as much an act of disregard as it is of felicity."