Epitaph

Writing with some vague intent Like pulling hair out of cement Straining through the days lament What do I need to say Why do I have to say it Parables and prophecies Odes and tomes and poetry Another jaded century What do I need to say Why do I have to say it 2100 BC on a piece of fucking stone Flash to 21st century and im so fucking stoned There is lore about the shores of the dead sea scrolls Fragmented texts but im so fragmented I just keep scrolling Rolling- off of the tip of my tongue Pretentious pedantry timed to the beat of the drum Write from experience Honour whats inside But my memory's erratic so a lot is falsified Fossilized but still alive so many voices from the past Words that echo of the present aren't meant to outlast No longevity in words especially when they are facts They merely serve the fickle fiction for this soft white track Epitaph- for the last – tortured writer on the planet Here lies Young Werther who died drowsily on Xanax Overdose on thinking yeah a casualty of art Fountain of Bellagio beating in my heart Imagine that there's no final act Just adaptations of perpetual mass How climactic could it possibly be A 1000 plateaus that we cannot see For every instance there is a blind That permeates into one of a kind Splinter splinter time is not intact And the world is independent of all facts Why cant I say what's on my mind Why are the words so hard to find I have no mouth and I must scream Tower of babel in my dreams