| Sitting listening to crickets in the thicket -- candyflipping
|
| I’m a wicked, disheveled white devil
|
| I’m a wannabe phenomenology prodigy reveling in suffering through self-induced
|
| anxiety
|
| With drugs -- to try me
|
| «My body is work» but I’ma pursue it
|
| Cause I’m ruder than Buddha
|
| Sip witches brew and get nude, giving 'tude to Judah
|
| Ain’t nobody truer -- get more enlightened with each stroke of lightning
|
| If it’s frightening, then Buttress say «DO IT»
|
| Do I gotta read Ephesians to these heathens?
|
| Chapter 2 verse 8:
|
| «For by grace you have been saved, not by works, through faith»
|
| So don’t grieve your reason, believe in what the Buttress speaking
|
| She say to make way to the diurnal Inferno
|
| Enter circles with Virgil
|
| Mother Nature’s infertile
|
| I burst forth from the abdomen of scorched earth
|
| The birth of a madwoman
|
| I’m an artist (starving)
|
| Static (charges)
|
| Exit fingertips through blue mist to touch lips and take trips
|
| I’m blunted like rubber tips
|
| Shipful of hits of acid taken in the past
|
| But I’m still fucking blasted, -- classic
|
| I’m fucking dramatic
|
| (Yo where the fuck are we?)
|
| I don’t think we passed it
|
| Keep going --
|
| Trekking to Mecca
|
| My internal vendetta
|
| Is to wreck my perspective, resurrect it
|
| We getting higher to die
|
| Purified through the fire
|
| Through trials I go
|
| If I survive, take me to green isles
|
| Otherwise kiss my eyelids closed
|
| This is the road I chose, I roam alone
|
| (Rejected)
|
| I hate the way my vision’s oscillating
|
| Guide no longer by my side, I’m too high
|
| (Neglected) I sit waiting…
|
| Reflecting |