It was August of the winter when I turned negative twenty two. I had said everything I knew so I opened my ears for a refill. Shut them again quickly as not to let in too much information. I was standing in a bitch slap battle field holding my smoke. I fell asleep as I started the days demanding goings-ons. Right into the flow of jezebels rap and ting wire spring lullaby “Jesus Christ this is fucked up” I thought as my living room tomb stone broadcasted that cold genocide. You can’t kill the bees while you’re trying to get the honey, because then you’ll run out of honey and don’t forget. The bees can sting and together we’re violent like Scorsese. Eiffel towers ripping through the soil for the sun. Hotels for the ghosts of our youthful innocence, gazing upon us with tears for an old tomorrow. Lightning bells and bombs of bolts. Our goals, our aim, ourselves, our voluntarily conditioning. All to cool our hot addiction to pride.
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