spoken word blurbs are as hot as printed tees

and you begin to think about the drink as you sink away from the dreams youd weild from academic fields and hope filled hills. You look at the ones you knew wondering how did they do, all the things that they knew they would from the beginning of time, a doctor, a lawyer, all excellent finds. And then there was you, a thirst for party still at twenty two and every opinion slowly looking further down their nose in your direction. Whats left is a solemn reflection, and the former self that looked so destined fueled by innocence lies at the bar at 3 alone with you and your saki wondering if you will see the dawn of tomorrow.

We've all hugged the bowl like a self loathing troll, that couldn't stop, wait what am I doing. This is fun right, its what everyone does on saturday night, pillage the concious so that inhibitions run wild. Why does the attitude you need to succeed only surface after drinks and some weed? Where is that chip, that confident swagger, on the wednesday before you start shooting the jagger? Its funny you see, that the person you need to be, only sees itself at half passed three.

Then you wake up and feel the righteous pain, why did I drink so much, I have been hit by a train. And as the daily rhymes go on, the wit fades away, and you start to rhyme train with pain and one liners from past fame. Then you wonder, as the years role by where your wasted lines went and why your wallet's run dry. And you get nothing sent your way except "hey remember that guy"?

its one hell of a path.

posted by mr. tomas ubik @ Monday, December 12, 2005