my friend wanted me to write something about him.
as if i was seeing reality from his perspective. this ist dis.

my necks up on the block
butcher please **** off or make it stop
i'm tired and a fiend
sorry for nothing, i think
calm cool collected, yeah right
grainy projections
play the horror reel mind
while worms of gold
slide out through cigarette burns
eat out the filling, i'm sold
**** off i'm removed
moving at an even slower pace
cliche engraved with my own
sit back, why bother at all
im getting so ****ing tired
and i think i just might be
truly sorry for myself
mr. butcher on the clock
keeps appointments razor sharp
starts the incision above the lock
then again he can just back off
and approach the situation
with that in mind
i'm floating
playing pretend
each breath is a turn
this key don't fit, i'm sure
it's just about time
molt my wings and burn
why bother, i'm so silly
i can't stop, rewrite the page
and bust the clock
draw the scenery with a matchbook
cause, i've become a carver
with smooth nails
even smoother silk bone
with that new flu
spread my wings
and fly the (coop)
not sure on the exact spelling of this word. spell check is useless.
i am the lamb.
point me to the slaughter.