This is my thought-brain discography
The collection of images, fetishes, skittish pet narratives
that squiggle in comparison to the weak utterances I usually make
and baste, roast, twist, tumble in a cloud collection of dream recollections
Imbibe fish oil, take two more, add a side of herbs, mix
See what comes out, maybe Zain's finally fixed
Maybe I can finally itch the scratch, the ill-matched maximum
That I ascend to when my mouth gets dumb and dribbles with
intellectual pre-cum, the precursors to articulate flow and later vetoed
vote recalls, see, there's a 2000 Florida scandal in my mind every time
I feel inclined to opine or wax/whine on a topic. I go from a choco-chip sundae
of undue confidence to putting an anxiety-blast cherry on top of it
and then squander it on substances, my sense of self wanes to the corruption
When I was young, I was true, but even then I couldn't tell
What they never tell you : that introspection can be hell
A thoughtless life your purgatory, and a pure mind your paradise
You'll find your slice of peace in the pieces of your dreams that you deemed
Silly before, but lately they're all you need
Those soft bursts of flash-mob streams trickling with ease
down the TV screens of your shrieking eyelids and your
ever reddening, ever hollowing, ever unseen cheeks
It's insanity, no, not the workout DVD
or that pressing compulsion to be more skinny
Rather, it's the cycle, from Whitney to Michael
Things great people might do just to reclaim their title
Once you've been king, you're cursed, you're cross
you're crucified then tossed, impaled, burnt, then lost
You might as well be forever nobody
and dwell quietly in anonymity
Than don the gold sheen and ensure
you regret ever belching a word
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