Go read the dead poets
instead of scanning journal posts
Self fulfilling the prophecy;
Out to cut this monotony.
Love is less a conspiracy, more a monopoly.
They eat it up
If only they knew how to sell it properly.

Buying into all the flat generics and straight-up pricks
Sure I’m six feet short,
fate almost hit “abort” and
I’m always late to court you.
But conviction should win over addiction
Integrity should have sold out all that regret by now

I’m just out to write things tonight
Ink through to an opinion that’s left over, but is right on.
Everything you claim to crave
I am well aware
You don’t understand the way of this waste land.

Offering contemporary vanity in verse
With all the profanity of hip-hop,
and all the perverse energy of rock-n-roll.
No longer blond
Fucking brunettes
Wetter in the heat.
And I don’t sleep or eat
And when you’re cut
I bleed all the words you can stand to read.

Passion flows to hustle in this scramble
Laying it all down to gamble
Rolling the dice to save a life
Taste the flesh sample.
Hang ’em high by my hamstrings,
tighter than a noose some days
Loose when they stretch me in eight different ways
for better or worse
Enduring that burn to hold what these kids yearn
for you’re my last and first.

We scale things upside down
and build new ground
on the glass ceiling of these unbreakable feelings
Still in grasp and screaming loud.

Copyright 2007 by MIKE PHELAN O’TOOLE.
All rights reserved.