Friday, August 17, 2012

Matchstuck Men & Other Freaking Clever Titles

Just Vague Enough To Work

½ the time my clothes don’t
Even feel comfortable
But I think people will think
I have something.
Just jokes people want anymore.
Jokes & agreement & difference, they want me to seem
When I say difference,
I mean difference agreeable
Fitted, lookin’ sexy, difference.
Difference we can market at social gathering
You’ll be a hoot, you old night owl.
You old wordplay, sell out single.
I ran out of jokes and people got mad
And I got sad
So jokes, no more jokes it all feels so fake
We all say that. I’ve run out of originality.
I ain’t marketable any more
I’m vain, mental masturbating prophet without profit
And money managing skills
And the idea that rhyming will make the poems better.
I can’t even get mad at you for not respecting,
Not making fun of
Me cause I have no clue who I am.
It’s all defined by what I own and what I listen to.
What a sad life.
My death will be shitty at this rate.
I’m trying to be artsy,
I look up things to impress.
But there’s a method to these matchsticks
It’s not just a name I came up with.

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