Say what's up?
Where's my cut of life?
Should I cut all ties, start fresh,
I've got the guts to fight.
I've done sit-ups, my bust is tight,
Next step is car lifts.
I'll haul my weight in street junk,
Living till my knees flunk, or my back breaks,
I have aches, all those days I feel stumped,
Sitting like a tree trunk in front of my PC slumped,
Eating After Eight hearing Mather's hateful beats pump.
And all I ever wanted was a puma.
How did I become a humorless Doomer, a consumer of broomers,
Trying to clean up my mess but it's hard when my boombox,
Rocks the block harder than the New Rock.
And all I wanted was meaning.
Did I lose the stream of hope gleaming after that last screening?
Haunted by demons so much I chose to be become one, where's the fun Hun,
I've been sitting here like I've been bolted by a stun gun.
I bolted. Sick of it all, revolted,
I somersaulted through the floor, crashed the door - better bolt it.
Ran out fast cause I felt bogged, it's better than jogging!
Till I lost my breath and felt my lungs coughing toxic, swapping out oxygen,
Fast like the hacks of a locksmith like I couldn't pull off it.
Let me catch my breath.
Let me have this stretch.
Three years later I'm still catching stress.
This was pretty damn interesting. And yet, nobody's spoken! Be the first!
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