Worse'n'All - Scope Sessions - Cryptoph
There's a chalkboard at my house. It's right by my bed. Make Art Now. That's all it says.
I wrote one verse this week.
My toes hurt from driving.
I drove into Hertz
with a full tank and milage.
I gave them 87 not that high octane 92. My brain's caught between my thoughts and what I ought to do.
Wild how life broadsides you,
realize time's inside and not behind you.
Mind state's "just focus on rhymes dude." Signed an oath, tryina' smoke, kinda broke. Pencil skills with mental illness meant to spill essential realness. Catch your feelings, stealing breath.
Leapt except the ceiling's wet. Feet filled a dent and fell, no need for help. It coulda been worse'n'all.
A person won't change until the pain gets personal.
Inspiration can come from pain, but I don't feel like hurting. I had a bakers dozen down days, but I don't feel like working. Now I find i'm way behind myself and failure is all but certain. So I hide inside my room and try to write, with closed curtains.
Called church 'n asked if i'd be better off late, then never mind. Every time I try the line snaps, i'm back on my back, back on my wack shit let's wax it so it grinds. If it all goes fine, I'll get at least one good line in before the light dims.