wewin
08/01/03, 09:25 AM
Drinking from Oatmeal Ocean
I can barely see love across the godless oceans of oatmeal trash
that spills from the mouths of make-believe poets
inspired by boring oatmeal muses.
Fumbling depression and mumbled excuses,
a minute for a song to stitch on crowded sleeves,
wearing garish tabloids and daring to sneer at the fashion police.
My enemy is the drones that drool love.
The makers are choking on the rot that you breathe,
a hive that builds despair and its vomit-crusted queen.
My enemy is the army of sequels she breeds.
I can tell that you barely know how to talk
around heartless mouthfuls of pre-chewed slop
that you call a song, to which you sing-along
from the mouths of fallow farmers embalming
their fallow cloning farms.
My enemy is the disgusting tears that you trail like a slug
and how you revel and adore your pretentious sluggy shrugs.
My enemies are the authors and their oatmeal-dripping pens
That paint the world one color and embrace the crying trend.
My enemy is the sad one who drives the herd on.
My enemy is the mad one who divides the poem and the song.
My enemy is the bad one who rewrites his favorite wrongs.
My enemy is all those who are content to sing along.
I can barely see love across the godless oceans of oatmeal trash
that spills from the mouths of make-believe poets
inspired by boring oatmeal muses.
Fumbling depression and mumbled excuses,
a minute for a song to stitch on crowded sleeves,
wearing garish tabloids and daring to sneer at the fashion police.
My enemy is the drones that drool love.
The makers are choking on the rot that you breathe,
a hive that builds despair and its vomit-crusted queen.
My enemy is the army of sequels she breeds.
I can tell that you barely know how to talk
around heartless mouthfuls of pre-chewed slop
that you call a song, to which you sing-along
from the mouths of fallow farmers embalming
their fallow cloning farms.
My enemy is the disgusting tears that you trail like a slug
and how you revel and adore your pretentious sluggy shrugs.
My enemies are the authors and their oatmeal-dripping pens
That paint the world one color and embrace the crying trend.
My enemy is the sad one who drives the herd on.
My enemy is the mad one who divides the poem and the song.
My enemy is the bad one who rewrites his favorite wrongs.
My enemy is all those who are content to sing along.