Its the shit beneath the taxi
It’s the making of the trade
Its the lack of good folks to look up to when you’re in the thirteenth grade
Its the smell of rotten dog food
And its the corpse of the mutt
Its searching for serving jobs because what I did wasn’t enough
Its the kissing of the foot and the bruises on the knees
It’s a black lace corset that makes it hard to breathe
It’s the rosary around my neck and the irony of that
It’s the beer in a plastic water bottle that’s gone still and flat
It’s a sardonic apology courtesy of artificial intelligence
It’s the threat of being merely a vicenarian and losing all relevance
Credibility is kosher and resilience is base line
If I wasn’t cherry picked or hand plucked generality would have been fine
Justification is null and void at a conference table crying
Its the pilling of your sweaters, the boom of your voice
The sinister thought that perhaps I never had a choice
That I could not have changed it, with any performance
Remaining a stonehenge each evening was an act of endurance
I was in mourning for my life, I was, more than you knew
The artistic integrity was lost in the tears I shed and blood I drew
This wound I’ve been licking, its an act of survival
Its a cold shoulder I give when I used to be a disciple
A prodigee, and prodigy, an embarrassment
Its the severing of myself after graphic attachment
I never smelt your breath, it wasn’t mine to smell
This could be attributed to me seeping into the floor while you yelled
I’m no trophy, no divine young artist, no poster child
If I just could have winced less, made the shattering of the soul more mild
I didn’t start the buzz down the chain, I had no control of the current
I’m innocent I swear, I was nothing other than a loyal servant
I’ll forgive myself somehow if you can’t do it for me
I’ll forgive myself somehow
I’m sorry about the dog
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