Drowning in a bowl of oatmeal. - A sad attempt at poetry.

Face and fist and graces list like favors owed to a friend who's old but just doesn't understand how cold it is to be that way and every day I have to say in some way how I would hate to be without that gate without a doubt and yet I fall into the wall running down the hall with a baseball bat and a Yankees hat telling everyone I know where the love is at

But I don't know and that's third base, the places I go they don't know my name but the recognize my face

I still don't see what the fuss is all about, it's not like you need all that clout and the truth isn't just lying about.

Let's get one thing out in the clear and this might sting but it's something you gotta hear

I'm tired of you and all your irrelevance I'm wired to be this way at this instant and if you don't like it you can go dance

on the head of a needle with the angels and learn how to bleed in the deepst of hells so you can fill the wells

that fuel the social stigmata I got a lotta respect for the one who has the introspect to realize all his regrets

and know that there is no take backs, but still won't have a heart attack when they think to all the times that

they could have made a difference.

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