Was easy to write, i´m no ernest hemingway.
Simple rhyme it just seems to lack.
I´m no great Jack kerouac.
I ponder, I feel, i pine.
Deem my crude rhymes a waste of time and...
Today is the age of NO imagination.
Cliche crap is a world wide fascination.
Look how lame my game is playing with words that get me nought but to the bottom of the page.
I write of reason, passion and decay. I write in bliss and I write in rage.
None of my colourful descriptions will take you somewhere real.
My ridiculous poems about love, when you think sensitivity should be cut out of me like a disease.
Not even the masses could cut it out me, though it´s there when i swear, when i sweat and bleed.
Curse conventions deep hate of curiosity.
Smashing the strange with commercial ferocity.
Sing along to some typical feelgood ad for family cars.
Industry pouring out of lady gagas arse.
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