i'm not who with my eyes from stage i claim to be.
i've only cradled death in my own ending flesh from far off
an abstracted lit candle wick flickering
and when a thing starts finishing around me
i faint or fake a mustache, an accent,
or flee in fear my expired license
be pulled by sheer proximity

fact:
the poseur and the baller get shot first
thinks he's the shit cause he can spit and curse
acting brash and flashing a pistol that squirts
scowling and shouting:
"shall we dance?"

should our hero's hands be holding this blackest purse
mom, am i failing, or worse?
mom, am i failing?

what should these earnest hands be holding?

still sporting my ex-girlfriend's dead ex-boyfriend's boxers
i wanna operate from a base of hunger
no longer be ashamed and hide my tears in shower water
while i lather for pleasure

i want to speak at an intimate decibel
with the precision of an infinite decimal
to listen up and send back a true echo
of something forever felt but never heard
i want that sharpened steel of truth in every word

the small fry in the bow tie dies first
acting wild like the spirit of God
moving after church
faking it hard like He's packed down dirt already
and yelling:
"be my guest"

should our hero's hands be holding this blackest purse
mom, am i failing, or worse?
mom, am i failing?

what should these earnest hands be holding?

should our hero's hands be holding this blackest purse
mom, am i failing, or worse?
mom, am i failing?

what should these earnest hands be holding?