i can hear the frail scratching of sympathy at my door, keep your whimpers and hope.

as those pixies dance
upon my forehead
i try to look up and smile
to look up and laugh
to try and displace
all my disposition
that is directed towards you
and it's true
i could be false
hopeful
and full of life
leave the bottle at the store
wait for some other sad sack of shit
to spend his money
on deviation
but Goddamn somebody has to say it
somebody has to bring it full circle
and i may be pushed aside
by others
but i'll yell my truth
at the top of my lungs
until somebody
shits on my chest
and then
covered in your feces
i'll jump up
and yell
yell so the who room will reverberate
with the sorrowful sounds
of belief
in oneself