Is it Ego or are you complex. Oedipus. Standing at the brink of a precipice, staring face to face with your nemesis. Self-reflection is a Bitch.
Never able to scratch that itch. Treating every woman you meet like she is God’s gift to your fridge. A slab of meat for you to eat, dispose of on your front steep. Told they’re sweet, but to get beat, or they’ll get beat, because they will never be as sweet as your mother’s queef stink, and you’ve always liked the way your cradle creaked.
You’ve got a sentimental streak. Probably what attracted me. How passionately you spoke through all that ivory, described to me your love of family, revealed only having eyes for me. Now even more puzzling when standing at crossroads, the only one questioning with all this deception an’ people taking stands while their head is in the sand. Making demands. Trying to tell you what side the coin always lands.
Being your own man means being Mr. Jones? Jonesin’ for the next drop like some coked up hoes. Dropping off the radar like some shot down drones. Forgetting what you are made of is skin and bones. Susceptible to unravel just like your clothes, but you’re right. You will never meet another woman who will just know. Always come to your rescue like your very own hero.
Following blindly like sheep in those stories told. Created you in her image, a perfect mold. As you rot the weak around you and spoil the ripest lot. Feeding your own wretched cause to break a smile on ole Ms. Clause, getting a break from those big ole paws, ‘cuz I guess beatin’ cubs down gets excused when it’s just been moms.
Maybe, you are blessed, with bad luck like you say. ‘Cuz lately I have been feeling warm at the end of each day. Like suddenly I’ve been caught in a perpetual sun ray, ready to play.
You chose to stay as I sailed away. Riding on the horizon, uncovering new ways. A lone gun, always on the run, keeping it fresh, tide, E in a bun. No Nair.
Can’t stop me from having fun. It’s never been about you hun; Mental Wealth, keep the change son. Excuse me? Think a-gun. Blick Blick, you’re done.
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