self reflection, an addiction even mirror talk can't cure
limping, trudging toward the future
two eyes on the past, a patch for the path ahead
the rapper with a chance to take acid again
a paradise will play pretend with parasites for friends
feasting on the energy to quit, in a vice grip
too much weight to think up paradigm shifts
no time between prescribed fixes
a picket fence is of no interest, life of the simpleton
deprived of substance and innocence
keep digging a hole filled with substances, illicit
legitimate, everyone a willing participant
on the cusp of looking for a fuck to give
two feet in the dirt, upper lip sub six
lower middle suburbians
wondering what's beyond this, all the insomnia bong rips
marathoners with sprint training,
something off with my pace lately
the black mirror looking glass
looking back, an addict
a tragic masterpiece, a parody
it's a long way down to the sacred ground at rock bottom
looking for silver lines in the clouds
releasing tension and feeling the space left, too far
a spaced out mess
all my friends feel like strangers
personal space filled with daemons
i'm an angel with a missing halo
paying complements to emperors with fake robes
About the Creator
Munro Campbell
writer by vocation, not profession. embracing the artist's struggle. | blog: thoughtcritic.co
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