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.