It will end now.

I'm trying too hard at not trying hard enough, and I can't say the right thing without coming off wrong. You laugh and tell me how funny I am, as I shove peanut butter under your eyelids. Spinning through life like a bird with one wing. No one has the proof. No one has the fortune cookie with the golden ticket... sorry Charlie. I've gotten the apple with the worm in it, right after I found the goose that laid the golden egg. Either time didn't make a shit of difference. The end of the rainbow is up your ass while I shoot gold coins down your throat. Biting my nail to the blood trying to figure out where the pain is coming from, while the love flies over me like an unattended car alarm at 3am... Smoking American Spirits will give me healthier cancer, so I can shit on your words that rest in the back pocket of your skinny jeans. Your mustache is so ironic. I will take nothing to my grave but my hatred for love, and the last thing my Father ever said to me, and he will die the slow death of happiness in his military bunkered boxer shorts, with his daughter's first prize tiara clutched at his cancer ridden chest. I stole my own record off the internet, I've already paid for it dearly with my soul anyway. Only men live here. Men younger than me. That don't sit down to pee. I am craving substance. Not just a plane ride to an autograph, and a lonely hotel room that speaks no english. I don't want dubstep ruling my unborn child's existence. No one ever tells the world why the doctor has no face anymore... rock and roll is regurgitated and sold as Lil' Debbie snack cakes to crackheads in a bodega used for a Columbian drug front. You fucking assholes can't make The Wall... you cant remake a classic film and possibly think it will be better... someone tell Kanye West that James Brown is dead. I can't possibly go on much longer with this much freedom.