One puff...
Two puffs...
And the bluff goes on...
This has been going on for way too long for me to choose a point to start with without being unfair to other beginnings
so let us rather continue than begin.
All in favor, Say “I”:
Any questions?
good.
I see with my own mirror reflection eye to eye,
yet he still looks down on me.
There’s hatred hidden behind his dilated pupils and bloodshot eyes that he refuses to show,
a lot of mail in his box, invitations to places he knows he’s suppoused to be at but he refuses to go.
Ey man, what's wrong?
He tells me there’s stuff that been going on for long and he thinks he’s had enough,
says his chest holds this constant feeling off something being off,
and one puff,
Two puffs..
he enhales first to let out a sigh that takes it away but it stays inside,
One puff, two puffs, he exhales...
Huh, nevermind this bluff.
One puff,
Two puffs,
I run out of cigarette boxes but maintain my position
I..
I’m constantly reminiscing.
Getting high off melancholy to come down everytime and realize that while I was too busy running away from ghosts...
I lost... ...one more person that would listen,
but hey.
What would they listen to anyway when I have nothing new to say?
all is said and done and I kept getting wasted for every time I wasted my sound constantly repeating what sounds like:
a. The world is changing.
b. People are hypocrites and double-faced n’...
c. Everything is shifting shapes,
d. We all decended from apes.
One puff...
Two puffs...
I bluff, and you do too.
So what’s up?
Well I…
I have got numerous problems and they’re more than ninety nine,
I have a problem with being asked a question for which the expected answer is a fucking lie,
cause my answer is everybody’s answer and it’s never suppoused to go any further beyond “nothing much, you?”
Well, fuck it.
I don’t think you’d know what you’d say if I say that what’s up with me is that my metaphorical fingers fail to grasp my rhetorical strings of thoughts,
And I can’t find my metaphorical shelter in which I rest and linger, and I’m afraid I’m lost.
And my metaphorical feet has grown weary and cracked and they can’t drag me down any more roads untravelled,
there’s no statement to be made and no truths to unravel.
you know things aren’t truly changing.
They might be moving but even the movement is static,
so I’ve been floating through days and nights like I’m on a pilot automatic,
and that is kinda problematic,
and irrational and erratic.
Because the floor, it moves, shift, shakes, and breaks but only beneath my feet.
And while I'm slowly fading into nonexistence only to be replaced with my sense of defeat.
My mind chooses to form images to which the council of the voices making noises in my head hadn't agreed.
And it keeps me up at nights,
And faded through daytime.
One puff...
Two puffs...
Let us carry on these forms of cultural hipocrisy and social bluff,
What's up?
Nothing,
What's up?
Nothing
What's up?
nothing,
What's up?
nothing,
nothing worth telling but that my suppoused mastery of my vocabulary is gone,
and correct me if im wrong,
but...
What use do you make of a master of puppets that fails to perform since hes lost control over his dolls and gotten arthitis...
but nothing?
What does a kid thats suppoused to live young and free when he's locked himself behind a way too early middle life crisis suppoused to grow up be..
but nothing?
Well it's fucked up.
Sup? Nothing much here but dullness and despair
and things that turn to nothings,
losing their sole purpose of being there.
"What's up" you'd ask
and as a nothing i'd answer,
with words that dont come out of my throat
the way they used to do,
and a voice that clings to my insides
and wont leave without putting up a fight
before speaking to you.
Saying:
"i think i found a sanctuary in solitary,
and it could be just another phase but this doesnt feel like it's temporary,
I'm kinda scared for myself,
for there's always been silence but it never was clearer,
atleast there was more sense in my conversations with the mirror.
But now even my conversations with myself kill themselves with the poisonous "nothing much. You?'s
that we're forced to use.
But it's nothing, really.
One pill,
Two pills,
My thoughts could be running,
But my reflection on the mirror is standing still.
So what's up?
Its nothing much
but that im feeling like im dumped to be uncomfortably numbed,
nothing.
For im neither saddened nor joyous,
and there's nothing out there for me to walk out of victorious,
im neither excited nor afraid,
and not anticipating anything to be happening, thought of, nor said.
One pill,
Two pills,
Funny how you asked me what's up when everything's downhill.
Nothing much happening,
and nothing much to remember.
Its been nothing since January and it remained nothing on December.
One puff,
Two puffs,
And goes on the bluff...
Two puffs...
And the bluff goes on...
This has been going on for way too long for me to choose a point to start with without being unfair to other beginnings
so let us rather continue than begin.
All in favor, Say “I”:
Any questions?
good.
I see with my own mirror reflection eye to eye,
yet he still looks down on me.
There’s hatred hidden behind his dilated pupils and bloodshot eyes that he refuses to show,
a lot of mail in his box, invitations to places he knows he’s suppoused to be at but he refuses to go.
Ey man, what's wrong?
He tells me there’s stuff that been going on for long and he thinks he’s had enough,
says his chest holds this constant feeling off something being off,
and one puff,
Two puffs..
he enhales first to let out a sigh that takes it away but it stays inside,
One puff, two puffs, he exhales...
Huh, nevermind this bluff.
One puff,
Two puffs,
I run out of cigarette boxes but maintain my position
I..
I’m constantly reminiscing.
Getting high off melancholy to come down everytime and realize that while I was too busy running away from ghosts...
I lost... ...one more person that would listen,
but hey.
What would they listen to anyway when I have nothing new to say?
all is said and done and I kept getting wasted for every time I wasted my sound constantly repeating what sounds like:
a. The world is changing.
b. People are hypocrites and double-faced n’...
c. Everything is shifting shapes,
d. We all decended from apes.
One puff...
Two puffs...
I bluff, and you do too.
So what’s up?
Well I…
I have got numerous problems and they’re more than ninety nine,
I have a problem with being asked a question for which the expected answer is a fucking lie,
cause my answer is everybody’s answer and it’s never suppoused to go any further beyond “nothing much, you?”
Well, fuck it.
I don’t think you’d know what you’d say if I say that what’s up with me is that my metaphorical fingers fail to grasp my rhetorical strings of thoughts,
And I can’t find my metaphorical shelter in which I rest and linger, and I’m afraid I’m lost.
And my metaphorical feet has grown weary and cracked and they can’t drag me down any more roads untravelled,
there’s no statement to be made and no truths to unravel.
you know things aren’t truly changing.
They might be moving but even the movement is static,
so I’ve been floating through days and nights like I’m on a pilot automatic,
and that is kinda problematic,
and irrational and erratic.
Because the floor, it moves, shift, shakes, and breaks but only beneath my feet.
And while I'm slowly fading into nonexistence only to be replaced with my sense of defeat.
My mind chooses to form images to which the council of the voices making noises in my head hadn't agreed.
And it keeps me up at nights,
And faded through daytime.
One puff...
Two puffs...
Let us carry on these forms of cultural hipocrisy and social bluff,
What's up?
Nothing,
What's up?
Nothing
What's up?
nothing,
What's up?
nothing,
nothing worth telling but that my suppoused mastery of my vocabulary is gone,
and correct me if im wrong,
but...
What use do you make of a master of puppets that fails to perform since hes lost control over his dolls and gotten arthitis...
but nothing?
What does a kid thats suppoused to live young and free when he's locked himself behind a way too early middle life crisis suppoused to grow up be..
but nothing?
Well it's fucked up.
Sup? Nothing much here but dullness and despair
and things that turn to nothings,
losing their sole purpose of being there.
"What's up" you'd ask
and as a nothing i'd answer,
with words that dont come out of my throat
the way they used to do,
and a voice that clings to my insides
and wont leave without putting up a fight
before speaking to you.
Saying:
"i think i found a sanctuary in solitary,
and it could be just another phase but this doesnt feel like it's temporary,
I'm kinda scared for myself,
for there's always been silence but it never was clearer,
atleast there was more sense in my conversations with the mirror.
But now even my conversations with myself kill themselves with the poisonous "nothing much. You?'s
that we're forced to use.
But it's nothing, really.
One pill,
Two pills,
My thoughts could be running,
But my reflection on the mirror is standing still.
So what's up?
Its nothing much
but that im feeling like im dumped to be uncomfortably numbed,
nothing.
For im neither saddened nor joyous,
and there's nothing out there for me to walk out of victorious,
im neither excited nor afraid,
and not anticipating anything to be happening, thought of, nor said.
One pill,
Two pills,
Funny how you asked me what's up when everything's downhill.
Nothing much happening,
and nothing much to remember.
Its been nothing since January and it remained nothing on December.
One puff,
Two puffs,
And goes on the bluff...
