voices
prophet of doom, sage of sadness
prognosticator extraordinaire
cheer up you son of a bitch
your a fucking american
for god's sake
oh my god i can't believe you said that!
pissing on my pity parade
what gives you the right
to rain on my rainy day
bitch!
major malfunction
what a fucking brat!
got everything, needs nothing
wants to lie around and wallow
in a self effacing pile of imagined crap
what do you know?
you're not inside my head
you can't possibly understand
i'm depressed.... suicidal....
i have a fucking prescription!
wake up and smell the fucking roses!
you privilaged piece of dog shit!
you fancy yourself
the downtrodden artist
on the verge of death
yet all the while
you salve your imagined wounds
with cabernet sauvignon
and pour out your soul
on your fucking macintosh
who gives a fuck
that you spent too much
on your american express?
nobody with real problems
that's for sure
who cares
that your collection
of 12 year old scotch
is leading you to alcoholism?
not the rest of us drunks
you whine and complain and loathe life
all in the name of art
you fancy yourself the starving artist
while you buy in bulk
at fucking costco
i'm sick to death
at listening to your insipid rhymes
begging your readers to feel your pain
hiding behind a facade of depravity
in your barcalounger
for all of our sakes
pull the fucking trigger!
either shit or get off
the proverbial pot
you privilaged little fuck!
don't act like you know me
don't even start to imagine
don't think you can overtake
the voices in my head
you can kiss my ass!
© 2008 BY W GARY FORRESTER
