The man lectured a group of us about he evils of life.
His tattoos and piercings came alive on his skin .
His scars wrapped around like snakes,
they paired up in an aggressive mess on the flesh.
The surrounding walls echoed his body art through graffiti
Fat imposing lines sliced with fine neon squiggles
The stains of older art begging to be seen
Underneath the hideous new tags
His face was an aged Edward Furlong.
Desperate and weary not to convince me of imminent holocaust.
But of the ills of wasted lifestyle and harmful habits.
The man ranted and his tatoos and scars danced.
He started dancing on the tables.
pointing and gesturing his slogan was "Don't be like me".
His life of celebrity had ruined him from his poor skin,
to his out of balance chemical mix in his brain.
he didn't say it like a warning, he said it as an appeal to authenticity
I would have protested had the group not been composed of his fans
I wasn't here to worship or encourage this self involved blowhard
So I started thinking of a polite reason to get the hell out
His behaviour became more and more absurd
He never admitted his impulsivity
saying it was a result of wrong place wrong time
yet he continued to live his bad decisions
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