Depends on whether you trust Holly wood or a dead civilization… So conflicting.
XD hahaha I feel pain lil buddy…
Slowly, time moves so slowly, as the moon caresses this little lowly village fair. Quite simply, all I want is for you to hold me, you make me feel so lonely, as the stars all stare. If only, the sun was brightly shining, I might stop just implying, but I’m really too cold to care. You keep wanting me to do, but I already did. Ask for perfection, I was only off by a smidge. No sense of direction, just point me to the fridge. What it is? Can’t I fix it? Why are you still buggin me? Slowly, I can’t run too slowly, from this moon caressed villiage fair. Quite simply, just let go of me, or I’ll start kicking, as all the stars stare. If only, the sun was shining, so I could get going quickly, because I’m really too cold to care. You want me to stay, but I already left. Ask me to remember those good times, they’re foggy at best. Bribe me with food, I already raided the pantry with zest. That’s not it. This can’t be fixed. Stop buggin me.
Wen i waz 1st startin out, I wrote mah beats like dis. Tryin to be hip wit mah current group of buds. i wrote bout stuff they cud understand, stuff dat wudnt miss. Then I hung with more classy friends. I changed again, learned to spin my words. From a beat to a rhyme, a thought to a story with beginning and end. Once again, I altered my speech for those who asserted themselves in high regard. I found phrases and parables to suit my new songs. Onward and foward I marched into the deep valleys of the Bard. No longer was I the sole author, nor my soul did I own. Shrouded mists of intagible thought entreched my written works. Like a sheep in wolf’s clothing, I blended in with the poets and their java. My saliva dried and tounge transcended into a pitchfork. The pain of being a wannabe is equal to being buried in lava. I want to go back to the beginning. I was a fool to think I could ever make it this far… Impostering, adapting, changing the core values of my being. Trying to polish this humble pot into a star.
To whom it may concern, this is simply a question. We, my associate and I, hope you don’t answer with utter rejection. You see, on this path we’ve taken, well the scenery never alters. In fact, it’s the same tree, same bush, same pigeon named Walter. So, we want to ask, do you know where we are going? Because we’ve gone in a circle around this tree without slowing. We know this because we see our prints in the mud in the rut we created. We don’t mean to judge, but we’ve been here before and we can’t say we’re elated. Time passes on and we have gotten nowhere, done nothing, and lost it all. Life moves on and leaves us behind, the trails gone cold, and now the leaves fall. We have dug ourselves a ditch, which, when winter comes, will metaphor into our graves. We ask you stop this madness and climb out of our own tiger trap before we become its slaves. The tree has shriveled away, we will be next if you don’t change your beat. Please listen to us, signed (with all due respect), Your feet.
He sat alone on a cold, metal chair in a cold, bare room. His feet were shackled to the floor in the most elaborate and thick chains he ever saw. His hands were cuffed to the chair, which he found to be bolted to the ground. He had only enough slack to put his arms on the cold, metal table in front of him. The walls surrounding him were a vivid white, almost blinding. There was only one, metal door on his far left, which looked heavily reinforced. On the wall directly in front was a long, rectangular mirror that stretched across the entire wall. He knew it was actually a window, like in those cop shows he saw on television, where the people behind could stare and observe him without compromising their identities. He stared at his reflection, glared at the scrape on his head. His brown hair was haphazardly shaven off by someone who didn’t care. His baggy orange jumpsuit was picked and thrown at him by someone who didn’t care. The wound on his head was washed off and partially bandaged by someone who didn’t care. Now he sat in a cold room on a hard chair, watched by an untold number of individuals behind that mirror who don’t care. His auburn eyes ached from the intense light, and the effects of the sedation he received prior to be dumped in this luminous cell were wearing off. He felt colder, stiffer, but he could finally form a coherent thought. Must escape.
“Must escape,” was the first phrase he thought since he arrived here. The higher ups determined it was best to keep him in a state of confusion to avoid unwanted confrontation. Now, for some odd reason, the sedative was either wearing off, or he was use to it. He sat up in his seat, took a deep breath and really observed the room. It smelled clean. Clean to the point of being nauseating. He decided he must be in an interrogation cell. His chains were tight, but he had enough slack to rub his head, feel his wound, and stretch. The floor was solid, poured concrete. There weren’t any vents, and judging by how cold it was, he inferred that they must be underground. He looked at his shackles. They had an triangular hole at the top, which appeared to be the keyhole. Other than that, they were as solid as the floor. As he was pondering these things, the solid metal door clicked and slowly groaned open. In stepped a tall, highly decorated man in formal military attire. The medals and honors on his chest showed great achievement. His battle worn, aged visage showed the ill effects of such achievement. He had piercing blue eyes, a thick salt and pepper mustache, and a snarling grimace on his face. He took off his hat and sat it on the table, revealing his white, receding hair. In his arms was a folder almost overflowing with random documents. He plopped it nonchalantly on the table. It was so over packed, it hit with a thud. The general, as his decorations suggested, stared at the prisoner for a few seconds, grunted and opened the folder.
“Well, well…well, what do we have here,” he finally said in a deep, snarly voice, “Destruction of public property, mayhem, arson, destruction of private property, resisting arrest, assault and battery, all on the same day… Boy, you’ve been busy, huh?”
The boy said nothing in his defense.
“You wanna explain to me why we have a collapsed bridge, three torn up skyscrapers, countless totaled cars…?” The general eyed the prisoner, waiting for some response, then continued on, ”Shoot boy, they even said the entire main street and sidewalk needs repair, now how do you go about explaining why I have to quarantine four city blocks, son?”
The son said nothing in his defense.
“Quiet type, eh? Well all in due time I suppose..” The general walked around for a minute, as if he was thinking on some trivial matter, like whether he should get pizza for lunch or not. He crossed his arms and leaned against the table. He whistled an army march and resumed staring at his captive audience.
“Y’know, you are at an impass, my friend. Do you know what that is? An impass?” The prisoner sat silently, staring at the table, as the general towered over him. “It’s a metaphor, which means if you don’t start talking, about twenty different scientists are gonna have a field day picking at your brain and other vital organs until we find out what we want to know.”
The friend said nothing in his defense. For whom it may concern, an impass is a predicament offering no obvious escape. The term the general was looking for was Fort Starr’s Subterranean Experimental Research Facility. The only place on earth that houses twenty men who like to poke around in people’s brains. At least the general was trying.
“Since you seem foggy on the details of that day’s events, allow me to refresh your temporal lobe,” the general jested, as he flipped the pages in the folder, “It seems as though you and one of your cohorts went on a rampage, destroying first the West Point bridge, then the entire four blocks on the east-side of the River Dogma. This continued until my forces stepped in and surrounded you freaks. Your little playmate escaped, and we want to know where he went. You are gonna tell us one way or another.”
“He’s not a cohort,” the freak said finally, hot with anger, ”He’s the enemy.”
The general slammed his fist on the table and growled in the prisoners face, his jaw clenched with rage.
“THAT folder tells me you’re both the enemy! You destroyed four blocks of MY city, four blocks of MY state, four blocks in MY country, and I won’t rest until you’re both in a cell rotting for the next thousand years, do you hear me?”
The enemy said nothing in his defense. The pager on the general’s hip pinged, and he sneered at the mirror. He gathered his belongs, and headed for the door.
“Don’t go nowhere, I’ll be right back,” he snarled dryly, chuckling to himself as the solid metal door groaned open, “Make yourself at home, because until I say so, this cozy cell will be all you know.”
The door clicked shut, and as the ringing in his ears stopped, the prisoner took a deep breath and placed his head in his hands. Out of all the verbal abuse, bright lights, thumping, snarling, growling, he kept his cool and learned what he needed to know. Along with a nifty pager, the general had set of keys on his hip. Triangular keys. The next conversation would prove to be interesting.
“Sorry, dear general, looks like I won’t be making myself at home after all…”
Walking down the main street, swag cranked up to eleven.
Big white shades, jet black fedora, just a little slice of heaven.
Sliding in some fresh kicks, give my tootsie pop a couple of licks,
Jaws drop, collar popped, homie right here make them haters sick.
Wink at you, a smile too, but you keep walking away unaware,
Then my alarm clock goes off and I awake back into my nightmare.
I’m a twenty year old fatkid dreaming to be something I’ll never be,
Hoping to get you to see the hidden potential in me.
Saying, “Hey baby, here I am, sorry I’m no Will.I.am, but will I won’t? Can’t be sure…
I’m just trying to spread the word, I got a future and I’m still pure, Facebook does concur.”
No past life, no secret strife, everything I got is out in the light.
Passion and love, the will to fight, roar in the morning, howl at night.
And I still dream of being fly as a kite, and I still wish I was in your sights.
But something called life keeps making left what should be right.
So here’s to those awesome dudes in capes and tights.
I’m not one of them…. I’m a fatkid wishing….
Wishing you weren’t my impossible mission.