MusterbationWith my mop I paint the worldMore Like This
another shade of the same.
I feel no shame for the rising sun
nor heat from the ebbing flame.
I'm sick of all the needless pain
on this silly, spoiled planet
and when I plan, I plan to leave it
no different from when I came.
My shell can fade and crumble
once my ghost has passed
and passing last will be my deeds,
my words, my face, my name.
True SightIf I close my eyes just right,More Like This
tight enough to let in barely any light,
might I see how skies are stitched together?
Whether they just decorate
like halos or a feather
or truly tether Earth to heaven,
under the stars and over the weather.
If we find my sight is true,
who can say I'll ever recognize the glue
you say I have to trust will hold?
Told be truth, I don't believe
I recall the taste of gold,
folded as it was between the jade
and every other pretty plastic sold.
Hard Art HeartI walk a new road every dayMore Like This
and strive to not be weak.
The blind must find their way,
the numb must watch them seek
and surely stumble.
With envy, though, of hearts that leak
instead of skulls that crumble.
If I were truly humble
I could be honest from the start,
or even mumble
'it's a dry and cracking art'.
Just more paper mache
to plaster around my heart
and keep the feelings locked away.