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I’m callin’ you a b*tch, ‘cause I miss you too much.
A kiss from you, and distance isn’t too much.
Soon as I woke up, I grew up.
Threw up. Blew up.
Told my dude to roll up, and my weed spoke up.
… The same time I threw up.
I woke up still asleep.
Vomit stuck in my sheets.
Eyes shut from the vomit.
Writing on the lining behind my eyelids.
Someone PLEASE turn down the silence?
Right about now? I think there’s something I hid.
So I dream of being inside you.
Reason why I ask when I need to be beside you.
… Beside myself.
Getting high, denying help of a psychiatrist.
Hiding my belt, and looking inside of my cell.
Looking at ME, inside of a cell.
My options seem to file themselves.
Wait tables. Be a great rapper.
Say uncle. To detractors.
Factor the junk they say, pack it away in a trunk, and go away;
[And] Come back when the sun’s passion, runs after someone’s AFTER.
Life after a period is a website disaster.
In context, what I write incites laughter.
Except, I have ACCEPTED my plight, and spend my nights… as a self-pastor.
Will we reunite?
Like Jesus Christ; Don’t read my life.
To make sure I reach inside, think of you every five minutes.
Minute three I cry.
Minute four; I grin, from being sure she’s alive.
Reaching five, I SI-
Drink some hot chocolate.
And cut back a few of my f*ckin’ options…
My self-esteem must rise for the benefit of nurses, who just lie to my limbs for a little bit.
… Begins my mental sentences.
Is the remnants of a question messed up.
OBLIGATORY. The sickest story.
But save all your kisses for me.
I miss you, and I will be with you shortly.
*leaves booth; beat plays for remaining duration*