Always searching through a big dark hole,
Streaming, slinking, slipping
Gripping, dipping, tripping
Who will be there to cure my soul?
Who will be there to be my fellow?
Keep me mellow, brings flowers yellow.
Escape the hell hole.
You’re flying crazy, soft and hazy, blurred and blazey, glam and glazy.
I’m fighting Lazy, been trying to get me.
Must need a convention, like an intervention
Waking me up with some more inspiration.
Some clarification, no more adjudication.
The thoughts will cease racing, ideas will quit spacing
And all I’ll ever hear anymore will be praising.
Confined, in the lines, in a box, I will lose.
But sometimes I feel there’s no choice left to choose.
He longs for destruction, an outdrawn production, pretends he has thick skin.
Ice blue pierces me with a pin. Feel empty as tin, just never can win
Caught on too late to his drift or his spin.
More shots of gin might warm up the heart.
That would be a good start, but then how do we deal with the alcoholic part?
Now, I remember why what I hate is this part.
Is this that pain-inspired art? Or is it just me falling apart?
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