What am I supposed to write about? All of my sadness is self-loathing and that’s covered by every sad rapper out there. I listen to lots of songs about heartbreak and x-boy or x-girl fucking up or cheating or lying but my mom is the only one who’s ever broken my heart (Hobo Johnson already has that covered, too). Also, it’s fucking easy to write about how bad things are, but it’s very hard to write about how good things are. Also also, I treat most of my writing as satirical in order to avoid taking myself seriously and hating the things that my brain tells my hands tells my keyboard tells my website to write.
oh baby you broke my heart like I break the glowstick
it glows so bright only for a minute
adorned my head on a summer night
faded out it’s dark now and I need a revision
you’re a chainsaw and I’m a log
carved a bear out of me then sold me off
you’re an ice pick and I’m just a wall
you used me to climb then you broke me off
iiiiiiiiiiii thoooooought that wewouldbetogether
forever and everrrrrrrrrrrrr like two birds of a feather
sunny skiiiiiiiiiiiies and mostly clear weather
noooooooooooow that you’regone i bet you feel better
but I dont! I dont! I know you thought I might
you said you white-fanged me so you could sleep at night
it’s not you it’s me, ritz crackers without cheese
now my mouth is scraped and dry you were supposed to be my drink
my soda after popcorn my mouthwash after brushed teeth my ice water after chewing gum my capri-sun straw the peanut butter to my jelly
chains shrink weak link I’m on the brink of dying (yeah)
kitchen sink ice rink don’t blink you’ll miss me (no)
not I’m only happy when I’m fucking flying or frying (ah)
Thought I found the key the hole in one the icing on the pastry (woah)
Today a package handler at work saw me goofing off and being stupid and said “excuse me, what’s your sign? Are you an Aquarius?”
I was dancing around vibing to a song in my earbuds pretending no one else existed but me, juggling smaller boxes, and bowling with a roll of tape and a few cans of glass cleaner.
She told me that she goofs off like this at work too, and sometimes her coworkers talk shit about it. I told her don’t sweat it, because you’re having more fun than them.
My self worth is a bottomless pit, I guess the metric is the more full the hole, the better I feel, but no matter how much I create or express or fucking vomit into the pit I just see the same empty screen the same tv static the manic flacid so-dramatic sycophantic silly string addict the placid matter apathetic pathetic sympathetic bed wetted south-headed flimsy-dicked toothpicked pickle-ricked sally sells sea shells woven spells and winter bells FUCKING HOLE.