Tales of the Mind
I often wonder will I ever truly be happy.
Will I ever understands what it means to be happy.
I’m at the age where I’m rife with robust angst
And I wield the sword of an idealogue
Feeling as if I have to set up life’s plot like some prologue
Everything to me seems to have a purpose,
Yet I bring shit up to others and they shrug it off saying its some surplus,
Not to take things serious everyone simply goes through it,
If that’s the case then why blow off this true shit?
This true spit that I speak,
Is full of spate,
Spotted, speckled imperfections
The very visages I hate,
The sense of entitlement and those claiming their special,
When I see their lives as nothing more than a hellhole,
So I tell whole galaxies that there are no fucking truths,
Just perspectives and the conscious aggregations of varied groups,
Yet if I’m the future of this planets cognitive troops,
Then shouldn’t someone be here to help me through the loops?
If I don’t give a shit what people think,
Yet require them to sink all faith in what I say,
Am I playing a role two faced?
I preach, hoot, and holler,
Claim that I’m some superior scholar,
Yet I demean every other,
Do I deserve to call one brother?
I hate mankind,
But I’m taught that this enmity’s mind
Is something that I’ll have to find
A remedy so I can grind,
Out solutions or merely drop it,
Yet that idea causes me to convulse,
So while I’m being told to stop it,
I slowly feel the fading of my pulse,
Swear the fucking know but their lives only show
They’re as worthless as their predecessors lying in the snow
Since its a cold world,
Fools are lost in in the blizzard,
I’m talking about old girl,
And they spit clairvoyance like some wizard,
I merely don’t know.
Am I different or am I the same?
The whole fucking world claims to be cut from a different cloth,
And I can clearly see it.
But fuck things are all wrong.
I’m mad cuz my patience all gone,
Not that I had the shit in the first place,
While fuckers are scrambling over first place,
I’m curious to know if that’s a race worth running.
With the cunning I sear I have,
And the perceived dumbing of the mass,
I feel as though I’m caught between the intestines and the ass,
Like a piece of shit accountant,
Counting stolen cash,
I’m just wondering if the crimes I commit,
Are different than the last.