You talked that shit about me now you probably bout to buy it.
I write my voices down to give ourself some peace and quiet.
I tried to find nirvana but she wasn’t taking clients.
I guess I’ll try the Bible I hear preachers feed the lions.
I mean they needed bribed but the teeth are just as filed.
Sharp enough to cut the piece of mind I must acquire.
I’m done being consumed by the emptiness inside of me.
I am part alive and part disguise of my idolatry.
Empathize with when the sky was blue and everybody watched.
Tall tales telling stories of a sky that falls from off the top.
Long and boring lost the worry when inertia met the drop.
I talk like I was Socrates, I been watching Alan Watts.
Wonder what the meaning is, no knowledge of what I want.
If I lost my need to fear, would it make the voices stop?
No one’s sleeping here.
Crickets and the clock.
About the author
@andrewnotlogan for Instagram and Twitter.
I’m hoping to profit from my existential dread. Maybe if I write something ~you~ find worth while my life will somehow transcend my mortal body and I’ll live on forever... but probably not.