BreakCanon
09-24-07, 10:57 PM
Nicotine doldrums,
Hold the phone,
I’ve spent too many weary hours smoking a cigarette alone,
Been stoned across the line between civilization and madness,
Predilections towards the glass half empty mentality rust finish,
Sink, hook, line, and there goes the fish,
It takes all of my willpower to keep from scratching the itch,
It’s a *****; don’t confuse it with any paltry addiction,
This is a way of life paradigm, cemented by doublethink lies,
If I had a nickel for every time I’ve balked in the face of diligence,
I would have a half a dollar to spend on my own personal penance,
And my descendents will walk the Earth with my own scars upon their head,
Thus posing a problem for the tapestry weaver’s thread,
My efforts are now directed towards healing open wounds,
Sweeping brooms across the edifice to dust off the starving moon,
I howl, directing the sound towards the Earth’s bowels,
Speaking in third riddle, third poem, third the whining sound,
Of the worlds smallest fiddle aboard a ship which ran aground,
Keeping this up for minutes my brain begins to feel like mush,
Thank you much for the soliloquy,
Now time to board the train,
Rush.
Conundrum focus never leads to self-actualization,
Merely hell on earth tampered by bouts of frustration,
Take my word for it; spend your energies on the tangible,
Because common sense isn’t so common when it’s held by the mandibles…
Hold the phone,
I’ve spent too many weary hours smoking a cigarette alone,
Been stoned across the line between civilization and madness,
Predilections towards the glass half empty mentality rust finish,
Sink, hook, line, and there goes the fish,
It takes all of my willpower to keep from scratching the itch,
It’s a *****; don’t confuse it with any paltry addiction,
This is a way of life paradigm, cemented by doublethink lies,
If I had a nickel for every time I’ve balked in the face of diligence,
I would have a half a dollar to spend on my own personal penance,
And my descendents will walk the Earth with my own scars upon their head,
Thus posing a problem for the tapestry weaver’s thread,
My efforts are now directed towards healing open wounds,
Sweeping brooms across the edifice to dust off the starving moon,
I howl, directing the sound towards the Earth’s bowels,
Speaking in third riddle, third poem, third the whining sound,
Of the worlds smallest fiddle aboard a ship which ran aground,
Keeping this up for minutes my brain begins to feel like mush,
Thank you much for the soliloquy,
Now time to board the train,
Rush.
Conundrum focus never leads to self-actualization,
Merely hell on earth tampered by bouts of frustration,
Take my word for it; spend your energies on the tangible,
Because common sense isn’t so common when it’s held by the mandibles…