just scribble another rhyme down on the page,
I wrote my muse to her death, now what I need is a sage/
like a Twilight Mage, trying to produce nighttime magic,
those old newspaper clippings, some great and some tragic/
the clock ticks, hopin my mind'll take his own bait,
prayin to God I won't become consumed by my hate/
keep at the debate, arguing about nothing unimportant,
they'll let you out as long as the note isn't in your hand/
rubber band, snap back at me tell me that I'm wrong,
to say anything that's on my mind in this form of a song/
hit the gong, because that mean that the show's over,
survival might take more than a lucky four leafed clover/
blue like grover, too bad his untimely life got cancelled,
but untimeliness can be filled in on 19 different channels/
warm like flannel, but my heart is just growing colder,
maybe the flames will rise as I steadily grow older/
the weight of a boulder, slowly crushes me to the ground,
they're stories, fairy tales, and they say nothing profound/
this is the sound, of oblivion taking you where we havn't been,
unfortunatly our lives are repetition of original sin/

Just letting out whats in my head
Peace

__________________
Life isn't a bitch...
she's just sick of being personified -Sage Francis