Thursday, 5 July 2012

Compose mail

Up and down, up and down, up and down and down and down, sitting on my thrown on my head this huge pile of shit in the shape of a crown. Self proclaimed king of this horrible fucking place, pin-eyed and the black rings under my eyes the only colour on my rubbery pale face. I dont have a fucking clue why im ranting, so much complaining that im out of breath and actually panting. Lost and losing myself more and more every day, wishing my fucking addiction away. How much logic in that statement i made, its like cutting my dick off with a blunt blade, no sense in that action at all, same as like going to a fucking mall - a complete fucking waste of time and space, still to myself im a digrace. Not one word of sense in anything i wrote here all i know is i wish i could dissapear. Do something except for crying and stop fantasising about dying...

'Don't believe everything that you breathe
You get a parking violation
And a maggot on your sleeve
So shave your face
With some mace in the dark
Saving' all your food stamps
And burning' down the trailer park
(Yo. Cut it.)
Soy un perdedor
I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?
(Double-barrel buckshot)
Soy un perdedor
I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?'

Beck - Loser

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