All wholly shit.
My time is wasted rhyming.
Who wants to hear me complain?
Come flay me now, paper cuts to silver lining
then fill each hole up with spackle and paint.
I’ll take my fill of dope and wine and vices
to squander care when the next rejection comes.
Crawl… on my knees…
to serve this dish of verbal oysters.
They might change their minds
if I try and try and try and try!
They might change their minds…
Toe every guideline, choke every hope and feeling
so you can croak in a slush pile unscanned.
Stuck with this pen of red discreetly bleeding.
You will be fucked, you’ll be fucked at either end.
Though hoping hopes might pose the greatest danger,
a hopeless life’s the best fuel for your pen.
So down on your knees
and heed those smug and passive voices
because you might change their minds
you might, if you could just bleed redder.
You might… you might…
yeah you might.
I’ll pay every duty, heed a little harder.
Pull on a thick skin and don a smiley face.
I’ll go through the motions, I’ll act like a martyr
I’ll wear these scabs and scars with hostile grace.
But the spackle’s soft and paint is slowly chipping
And floppy hope keeps falling to the floor.
Down… on our knees…
we strain to hear those tiny voices.
Because we might, we might.
We might! We might? We might!
Oh yeah, we might.