There are so many things that are inside of my head,
That if a psychiatrist were to pick it, they’d end up dead.
Every day when I get out of bed, I dread,
But I’d rather gather my strengths and write instead.
There’s so many times that I feel dismayed,
Even though my mind is sharper than a switch-blade,
I’m always lost in my own world wondering which-way,
Does my brain fit in my head if I were to switch-trays?
How many times do I have to bust a rhyme?
Like I was bashing on a clock trying to adjust the time.
I feel like my thoughts had combusted my mind,
Like I was working out these demons and stuck with wind.
I’m bored as hell while sitting in the library.
I know the great times are coming up so I have to be tight not to be
scary,
Some days I just wish it would thunder and rain,
Stare out of a window while I muster this pain,
Trying to write a biography while I cluster my name,
Even though I don't wanna be in the hall of shame,
I’m still a sucker for fame.
I've always wondered why I love writing my thoughts,
Probably the same reason bacon gives people clots,
I didn't get a pumpkin early because I knew it would rot.
I could make a chair go back and forth without making it rock,
I can’t think of anything else because I just hit writer’s block,
Just another excuse to have biter’s talk,
Like a drunk alcoholic downing a higher shot,
I don’t just park my opinion; I take up the entire spot,
I’ll keep pushing forward; I have no desire to stop,
And I don’t give a damn if you like me or not,
There’ll be no one capable of annihilating my plot,
My words of clarity is going to start spreading like an epidemic,
So dope, I’ll have books written up with people wanting to rent it,
There’s not enough time or worth to send it,
Because time is money; no reason to bend it,
No human combustion, but I’m about to blow up and end it,
Come back to life and attack them with my success story when they least expect
it.
