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Idlewarrior
09/02/08, 04:31 PM
On the space above sat
A Mass from the unknown
A vat of dust on a blade

Spun tight in circumference
To the ceiling fan
It’s a quarter to eleven
That’s two to five to life
Not quite seven

An IQ to match the time
Pores roar with violence
Instinctual medication
Pass the door with innocence
But threshold frustration

Lack of sleep and control
Eyelids called down
Not tired, its depression
Fallen like an angel
The Mississippi’s frown

The mission
My hit of rendition
Cataloged in a theme
A Magazine

A flake of flavor
A pasty portion
Jesus Christ like Savior
Wanted for Extortion

Hypothetically
I wore it like a coat
Developed an Allergy
Got sick off the coast
The ride of energy
The temptress poke

Back to work
But all that’s wanted
Is a metaphoric birth
Tweeze the cells
Pull ‘em out by ones
Quell the visions of hell
Start it out, Count the sounds
I have fallen so stiff
Regrets are done with
To do it all over
Would end intoxication
The things you’d do to keep me sober
What I did can never be forgiven
Heaven is but a mere taste
A cake with its pieces given

I spun so fast
I didn’t even notice
The switch fell passed
The on position stance