The Resembler

It stinks when all the familiar things

Pull me in like gravity

And kills my originality

And creates a nightmare from a dream

 

I sink into an empty rut

And get an aching in my gut

I feel like a quadriplegic slut

An un-ripened fruit that can’t be cut

 

The symphony within me lacks instruments

And I’m so cheap I can’t spare the expense

Not that there’s anyone I’m trying to convince

It just feels like a sick form of punishment

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Published in: on June 12, 2003 at 2:50 am  Leave a Comment  
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