chance lost

it's low energy

retreat to what

i thought knew me—

best.

now caved is the chest

and hollow be

what's left.

i'm fiction,

take all your thoughts

of my diction,

and burn it up.

let that smoke rise

and still ain't no

rasta.

ready to cut this hair

and join forces

with the air,

u still don't know me.

joy from this—

no more.

fuck open doors,

poetry, and spoken word.

man—

not i—

a liar in the 21st century.

no one knows the real me.

god is dead

if there ever was one;

i dare u to come

bastard,

absentee landlord,

read that bullshit footprints

and still classify the great story(ies)

as whores.

control the masses,

take their glasses, and

call them asses,

for believers are donkeys

white folks honkies

and blacks be niggers

hispanics are spicks

where is my fuckin' trigger.

this ain't no call for help,

the poet is already gone…

so hit your fuckin' bong,

get along with your neighbor

and fuck life.