{WHYTHEFUCKAMISTILLAWAKE}

i wonder where i wander when i open up my eyes

id rather hide away from light and let my spirit fly

and in that instant i instantly saw that the pencil of my mind hard started to carve and got stuck in a groove and what was it doing? i dont write poems i write words that are moving around words that are proving that words that were using are just worth what were fusing and inducing when we inflict them on each other and in their vicinity they become aware of the space that surrounds them and the words that they stand on and hold up and the ones that close in from all sides and every single word was placed into the block after being chopped from the mind and alligned on a pixel fixed with by a sick soul driven by his only drive to be moving and moving and moving and intertwined in the twine that keeps his head around his mind we look and we find that the hair that grew there was just vine kept for barely the sake of bearing the weight of the words he couldnt carry and he dropped them behind him as he ventured into the woods but who ate them and now couldnt return and he never remembered what he dropped and thats all the words that hes got he just stirs them around in a pot and reuses them a whole hell of a lot a hole in hell was the lot that the coal sells for the plot to take over the road out of nod and we are defiling the crimes by assuming the rhyme and line after line after brother shaking line is the only achievement that was ever designed and the self was fulfilled but the price was a dime and we should have just left it on the street in the first place.

SIX NOVEMBER TWO-THOUSAND-NINE