How can we write our autobiographies
when life is still going on?
We fall behind in our memoirs
and we fall into stops.

How can I explain what is happening
when it is changing before the words come out?

How is it justified that I condensed this down
when it originally took an hour to write?

Time warps out of proportion.
If history repeats itself, how is anything unique?

A green apple turns red with maturity.
A green physics goblin pushes me down
when the bus is stopping;
but when our cars collide,
reaches out to catch me.

You can't take anything literally anymore,
you have to take it with a grain of sand
and two pills with a glass of water.
Every drop makes me stronger and stronger.

It becomes a rhythm when I lay down the beat.
It becomes a lyric when I write down the words.
It becomes a song.
It becomes a painting when I lay down the brush.
But it becomes art when your interpretation begins to start.
Lord Gold feeds from your orifices and he wants to see you sweat.
Lord Gold probes you publicly and makes your pussy wet.
Now say his name.....