Pot Helps 37

cops is wannabes n shit,

pussies to the wettest max yo they cant compete with

a real life, time swallowing straight up bear-man of life's

real shit. about to get their tails ripped with the heat of a gun

banking on that HOLLYWOOD message to back em up on this one

but I ain't dumb, Ive spent some time up on that cross and

I know they soft, I know they fat and fake, I know they stand behind barricades

and I know I didn't take no fuckin war to the face

so they could borrow my manhood and sacrifice

and act like punk fat fucks all over the place

shooting the innocents with mace

and taking it to a whole new unnecessary level.

Pot Helps pt. 36

Blind optimism and optimistic rhetoric interpreted as truth, as seen through the scope of one's own desired personal achievements vis-à-vis one's placement within the human 'heroism' tableaux. Intensely exacerbated by the learned concept of American individualism, all directed by fear; as if we are to believe anyone who opened their mouth ever really chose to exist on any sort of level at all.
That’s what we deal with.
And let me tell you without a single hint at cynicism: if I weren’t just a little bit a part of this or perhaps on some level intensely choosing to be, I’d have been asking myself non-stop to play more than just one game of R.Roulette up to and until I was black-bagged, toe-tagged, cast off as an angry douche bag and left to time. Look me in my eyes and tell me I’m not right.
But do I maybe get a little bit of credit?
Don’t I? I put enemies on all sides under the guise of looking for truth and I may have found it, but it was about as climactic as ripping my whole house down to prove whether or not I was right that I could find the empty space where it once was and that the empty space could not have been there when and where the house once was when it was there where I was cogitating this mess and now perhaps my thoughts are lost like the way you lose a parent and I'm maybe perhaps just a little bit up there on that cross in terms of how I have to constantly feel your pain for you.
And this is an existence. This is a combination of a million electrical signals. This is me and you and everyone else trying to pretend.
This is me in the end.

Pot Helps pt. 35

Full of yourself or full of shit, what’s the difference? You tell me, humor me, explain the phenomenon of how I’m the crazy one for knowing how to feel or for even knowing how to spell the word ‘real’. I’m real, and in the company of Americans I taste nothing but migraine on my tongue and the breath of war is all I have to feel or have known to feel and I can’t let it go because it’s all mine; my time on the wheel, all mine. I figure that a good amount of time spent in this chair will suffice, will draw a tighter close on the blinds, will give me a winter night that not even you can try to climb because I’m inside and I’m know for sure I’m better, faster, smarter, stronger than that image of you that you try so desperately to punctuate as you write. Best stay away from me when you got your bullhorn speaking because you know damn well that I easily decipher your codes, I know how to break into your petty home, and I know how you fear and refuse to spell the word ‘alone’. Made my bones on pouring my mom’s whiskey down the drain and you pretend to call yourself a man, from here to shame, too bad, in the company of so many Americans and fluorescent lights and I have to tell myself so many times a minute that it’s not so bad: it’s all right, it’s all right, it's all right. Like I was my own support system from the beginning of this rhyme and it’s a constant struggle against my own awareness of the fact that I’m being ass-wiped across time and that it means the everything of all of everything and it doesn’t mean fucking shit all at the same time. As if your life was nothing but a .gif of your shitty job and your shitty leisure time and I have learned freedom: how to color and step outside of those lines, because I am all mine.

Pot Helps pt. 34

Crash! the smallest hint
Bang! the million scents
I’ve had a hard heart hearing
Where the old men were screaming
an apolitical nightmare of death
and memory
The way that some children can be

The way we all end up losing to see
It’s all over
How many more moments of early afternoon sunsets
can there be before it’s all over?
As I come all over;
as I be, as I am,
all over you.

It’s hard to pull out when you’re in
like a million radios singing
like a million frequencies traveling
come in,
come in.
It’s hard to pull out when you’re about to come
like a billion copies of me on the run,
just come,
just come,
just come.

Pot Helps pt. 33

I sip on wine and I chug on beer,
I puff on weed and I nibble on ears,
your ears.
Hear me dear?
Hear me coming am I coming through clear?
The shit we say and the bullshit we hear.
Oh dear,
looking at me like I was made entirely from negative fear.
Backing up your rear,
hearing the roars of tomorrow.
So much sorrow,
as we live we borrow
a
little more.
Hearing you like I wasn't lying I swear I was just trying not to snore.
I mine for life like death was my most prized ore,
and all I need is just a little more,
just a little more,
just a little more;
the sweetest of all sap.
Inside of my closed eyelids like time slows down and I’m just taking a cosmic nap.
I live in your lap.
I live in finger-plucked chords and the white noise of the ceiling fan.
I live within catacombs I built in my head and it’s about as dark as I can.
Because I can.
I can.

Pot Helps pt. 32

I travel by whale fin,
million dollar lips.
I travel and I go into tailspins,
them billion dollar hips,
billion dollar bullshit.
Milly Midwestern as we Vanilli fake this,
this American life.
All open mouths haunting, chasing me with your lies,
suicide
suicide
suicide

Watch me break all of my hand breaking down their face,
watch me get full on emptiness in my usual way.
Watch me walk away,
watch me walk away.
Watch me be one of the collectively forgotten and ignored 18 on any typical day.
Like today: someone help me,
somebody has got to pay,
some have to burn so the rest of us can stay high all day;
and where does that leave you?
who the fuck do I gut if the traitor is you?
How do I keep my blood pumping red if you fill me with blue?
will you?
will you?
will you?
or will you add a different color from the palette to your paintbrush,
if I give you a chance to start anew?

I travel by my own two feet,
a million miles underneath.
I travel and I leave.
Leaving nothing but a little heat,
and even that retreats.
Razor blade dreaming as we pretend to enjoy this,
this American life.
All open mouths haunting, chasing me with your lies,
suicide
suicide
suicide

Pot Helps pt. 31

Listen up to my fucking mouth when I got something to say
When your eyes have somewhere to be placed
When I drive,
Away.

When I shed rubber from my tires all on this road
Living like I’m never alone
Harassing your body,
Super, super stoned.

Feeling my connection to this world plucked and vibrate like a tether
With your eyes providing the weather
Learning how to be,
Forever.

Sure as hell going to carpet-bomb your skin with my hands
All day talking about blah-blah and making plans
Making me shake,
Goddamn.

Making me shake all over this crust of this here planet
Pump me full of pills and just tell me to stand it
Don't care if it was a freak accident: If I’m dead,
I've always planned it.