street sages

and, oh, those crazed old bums out on the streets

and the sheets they draw from underneath their souls

their conflicted souls, their rejected numbness

oh, my little girl, couldn't we..?

live a bit like they live, and free ourselves

make a scape through what is harshly though apparently clean

seems clean and it's actually the dirtiest of them all

I really don't feel like conformation today

I feel like living it up to my nature

I feel like experiencing outside presumable

the understood and proven methods

failing in a post-modern failed society

falling through fucked up bricks

absorbing what's left out of free spirits

and the walls rise up to protect unworthy shit

I could ask myself what's left

what's left of authenticity, mine, theirs

what's left of the street scent

of my insides and its colors

but i'd be greatly depressed while realizing

the reduced and simplified pathways

the ones that spill everything

and the certainty about some facts

and the line being drawn from this

sliding sadness, hanging around in the attics