A Whistle of Rope Hung By a Needle
“I think, therefore I am,”
A sound unsettled like sand.
Seconds, minutes, hours, and days,
A sonata ringing inside to stay.
How does one say such words?
Rhymes and poems brought forward.
Say hello to the man upstairs,
Tell him a “f$ck you” for all I care.
Spit your love and pity in my ear,
I don’t give a sh$t what you hear.
Hold my heart love, I know your dead,
What a whore who can’t handle dread.
So sick of life, I’ll leave it all behind,
So sick of you, love suicide to a god you hide.
F$ck you and all the little people,
Aristocracy inside your pathetic steeple.
Step on hope with a smile,
An empty heart filled for a while.
How do you know you’re alive?
I say “your dead,” but get up for a while.
Open your eyes to misery and woe,
Leave it all, and just f$cking go!
Say your prayers than off to sleep,
In the morning you’ll praise the weak.
The selection has grown thin,
Shitfaced losers will always win.
Chopped white lines cover the mirror,
Sweeter words last year after year.
Random acts of violence exist in your head,
But hold your peace until your dead.
Wake the living and set fire to hope,
You know this world is best with dope.
So, give up and just cope,
I hope you find that life is only a joke.
Copyright © Adam Hollingsworth | Year Posted 2011
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