The Trials and Tribulations of being an irrecoverably jaded Rogue Christian

Feeling a little less of who and a little more of what you’d like.

In the silence of this suburb,

My skin is screaming.

Sedated to the core,

Sluggish movement,

Staggered apathy.

Even difficulties going through the carpal tunnel of love.

Peyton, you were right about my sole purpose in life.

- This place is a prison.-

Feels like Christmas in July,

With strange sides on coins.

Writing gospels on giving up.

So fitting of the way you are.

It’s going to be a very long day.

As we all fall off the bandwagon.
The usual irrelevancy is still present.

Not to worry about the press coverage, and that’s the only difference.

Such altruism.

Such nobility.

Cause even all the medication in the world can’t make the ADDs focus on that.

- We’ll never get through customs, let’s just take off again instead.-

Maybe you hate,

Maybe you love the way it feels,

The attention going to your head is facing the wrong way,

But the boys know how to heed it

And we come full-circle to embracing our roles of hero, idiot, villain.

The latter being lonely and un-medicated.

Weeks turn into days,

Days become one,

A dusk and a dawn,

It stretches and bends,

Bleeding together,

Especially the sleepless ones,

Or even the medicated ones.

It’s still Thursday.

Confabulations to the malingerers but the purpose has God written all over it.

And your pseudologia fantastica is jacking and repeating, full of mediocrity.

Oh empty vessel, tame that tongue.

Save it for his hips with your lips.

In the land of desolate dreams.

This day needs a dulling,

Time to get numb.

Don’t bother, you’re too

You were the last good thing about this part of town. – GTA.