There Ain'T No Cure

There ain't no cure for me There ain't no cure for anyone There ain't no cure for a society based on aesthetics There ain't no cure for a poem that doesn't spill onto the page There ain't no cure for the subconscious image conscious We take common imperfections, warp them into crippling deformaties. Whe do we do this to ourselves? Why are we so poor to ourselves? Has this become the only internal sensation we can still envoke? Have we become so stagnated, the only feelings we can foster is self-loathing, this anger toward our own physical shell, the satisfaction of hating others? There ain't no cure for the tragedy of it all Does this matter at all, or am I just insane? Does anything matter, or are we all insane? Are we mad from life, or from lack of life? There ain't no cure for the contagious madness from buses from 80 year old grocery clerks from Ronal Regan posters from oversaturation from vapidity from turning tricks from needles from too many bad books The mad driver stomps the brake on the expressway. Semis collide. Radioactive sludge splashes a bus of pregnant women. Several months later, mad mutant spawn crawl to life. There ain't no cure There ain't no cure There ain't no cure for the tragedy of it all There ain't no cure for time Too short of time Too long of time Running out of time Life's too quick We wait too long Too much time hating Too much time sleeping alone There ain't no cure There ain't no cure There ain't no cure for lost time.