Quick spit.

No one has wanted me enough to stick with it, to click and to live it
To see my sick fidgets and to hold my face until I quit it
So I sit it out and spit it up,
and there is no crowd rowdy enough to seem tough to me.
It's boring enough to ignore; the incessant chatter sets me on edge.
Let's share a platter of candescent repressants, with a spattering
of nothing that matters, it makes the clattering of
voices tolerable because of the loss of control and endless choices
But in the end, it's either too fake to jive or too real to die.
That's it, when you blow it, you know it; and you better pray
that the day you run away is before the day you sold it and folded.
Oh please, take the pain, drain it, I get so insane when it's gaining
I end up all the same and lame when I can't tame it
Unsustainable- slated to be maimed but too alive to slay.
But who's to say I'm done playing?

Shut up- no more taunts- you really want to lie down and be needed-
Mean! Go bless yourself, you nasty past; all the self-hate is a bait,
but what bites is no kind site to the eye. Make it, make it stop-
Come too near and there are too many flaws to focus on or notice;
the closest is fear. Really all it is is melancholic, alcoholic pain,
You swear you can tear it off, but no one cares, through all the
Hey there! Nice hair!
Eventually you have no one left to thank.
They all tell you the same thing and then it's done, they run
And you're left in a pool of sun to hum the dumb away.

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