plan B : disappear

I'm really not sure what this is, but I was sittin in english class bored as shit and this is what ended up on the paper (Personally, I thought it was pretty funny):

Balls to the wall, you fall, straight into a new idea of perception, a collection detection. What that you detect? the end result of the lit end of your cigarette. The effect of inebreation, in contemplation, a demonstartion, I'm glad you've been patient. I was once told by a traveling man with a J in hand, it's not about the land, or what is considered popular demand. Granted, the Lord works in mysterious ways, but our method is only gonna bring us more pain.
Som might say, philosophy's insane, but do have the answers, to the questions, you been restin, inside your cerebellum, let's hear 'em.
It's a gateway, the backdoor
An escape from your average life bore
Another level of consciousness import
The inhibitions of man with a mic and an attentive floor

It's the Rasta vibration
For what have you been waitin'
They say you been patient
It's time to wake up and feel loved

I'm gonna tell you now
It's not about where, when, who, why, and how
It's about a meditation
The way a concentration can connect a mental and spiritual station
So just sit back, relax, and let the mind refine creation

Too cold the fire and brimstone
Too warm your lips alone
Too loud the static that crowds the telephone

Let's make it self-righteous and unbearable
Then let's give it something of which to take hold
"Fasten your seatbelts" speaks alone from the speakerphone overhead
"You'd beeter get out of bed" that's what he said
"You shoud lay down instead" is what she said

This bicycle calls for a rider
This song call for a singer
This reason calls for a rhyme
But where has your god gone?

Hear a raindrop fall just the opposite side of the glass reflecting those lips I've come to love so much
Watch a teardrop falls down the cheek just opposite the one I caressed just a moment ago
Dear Dear Dear Light
Somebody told you there was more
My only choice was the door

You kinda have to assume the meter, the rhyme is random.


I can’t quite deliver a pattern to discover the mixed plains and strains that I seem to detain in the most intricate corners of my mind. I’m not able or capable to explain the main strain I’m trying to obtain to reach my consequential finish line. You see my trouble is confusion, this is my retribution, my explanation of what I need to heed; a clear head. Like a serene lake to contemplate, the idea of absence instead. But then again, it’s quarter ‘till ten, I’ve got no time mend the pieces of the puzzle that rest in side my head, as I rest inside my bed. Instead I must move from this place, make haste, to find my right place among this race, lest I be considered a disgrace. Be labeled ‘dischord’ for trying to do things of my own accord. For a clear head is thoughtless and without thought we’re lawless, after all we’ve got a conscience, to consider. A conscience to apply the Bible can tell us why, so our fellow man will hold us in high esteem, so that they’ll respect our dreams, and our word will lead among a mess of instinctive ideals. So that these word will enter the mindscapes of those who succeed me, so that mindscapes will then want to be me, at which point I will no longer seem greedy, but at the same time getting away with the "big picture" lie, of how I spent my time, writing lines to humbleness imply, to instigate praise, on who’s part..Mine. See this is how the world works, "Youth of the Nation," more like kings and queens of manipulation, this is how the truth works. It’s not whether your gear was fly or you were gettin’ high, it’s about all the lies, the lies I use, to in your mind prove, to be truth. Truth above all else, whether legitimate or counterfeit. You can pitch a fit or you can go ahead and take a sit, learn a bit, about how the world turns (I know it burns). But this is the shit that you must heed, so that your children you can feed, your peoples you can lead, everything entailed in the tale to succeed. The way you may feed your greed, without objection.

I'm trapped under water, where have all my angels gone
Damien is here to welcome you to an entirely new brand of hell
We thought we were all just having a bit of fun
Juvenile good times, or cheap motel reruns, no one can seem to tell

So your that girl who jumped in the wishing well
and found everything you never wanted
The one with all the answers but never any questions
It was you he was shouting about from teh lowest peaks of the heavens
You're God's inspiration his reason for being

Love has always been you greatest enemy
I looked in the record books to figure that out
We were reading to find a recipe for honesty
But it looks like you tore that page out

It seems we've forgotten the important peices,
It's seems we've all switched vices.

A random inquiry: Do you ever think about me, cause I spend a hell of a lot of time trying not to think about you.

Take a bullet for your god, and I"ll show what it's like to really live
I'll open your eyes and you'll see you're beginning to begin.
Your eyelids reflect your mediocre taste for love,
your perseption too deep to let you have some.
I love who you want to be, or who you want to need

Watch my God quickly become yours, as you take a breath and a step in my direction toward, Hold out your hand and be patient for the next passerby, another question and answer game denied, beauty was never your friend, but in my case this was all pretend.

One night please, Stay with me
Sober indeed
Your my epitomy of apathy
My perfect beauty
The object of my greed
All that's left of my creed
Your my death and recovery
An ever-present conglomerate misery

He enters the restaurant, the lights are dim and you can smell the freshly roasted peppers, and the fresh bread just comin' out of the ovens. Across the room, about thirty feet from the door sits a woman, head propped up on her hand, her glass of red growing evermore stale from the scent of lonliness at the table. Her eyes boring holes into the next chapter of her relatively exciting and somewhat arousing smut novel, she takes, once again, a deep heavy sigh. He spotted her and decided to settle at a table two tables away, ordered his own glass, and began looking over his menu all the time trying, oh so suttly, to keep from being noticed as he studied her every curve and crevace. Suddenly he rises walks to her table, stops, looks her in the face, the woman looks up. On her face is a look of shock, almost panick, a "deer in the headlights" kind of thing. Ackward for a moment, he sits quckly, places his hand over her hand, as she quickly pulls it away. He grows furious, pulls his fist into a ball, the veins on the side of his neck begin to expose themselves like intoxicated high school children, and slams it onto the table. In a hieghtened tone of voice, just short of a violent scream, he shouts, "WHY? WHY? WHY DO YOU PERSIST?" She just looks at him, taking another sip of her warm chianti, eyes back to the book. He pulls his lips closer to her ear, just to the point that is necessary for a proper seduction and whispers, " I love you more than you will ever let me realize".......Light once dim, now blackened, curtain closes..........why?

So let me write a song for you,
a song for the ages.
The kind only found in fairy tale pages,
The kind that instagates tear stained faces.

A man notices a young woman, her long slender body, seduces him as a lion to a weak gazelle. Slowly he approaches her, with the slightest movement, not to attract too much attention. The way that guys will in order to “hit on” a woman in a manner to least exhibit a form of “hitting on.” He looks at his watch, releases a deep and concentrated sigh, begins to look frustrated as the woman offers him a seat next to him. “Are you alright?” She asks in what sounds like a concerned tone, polite at best. “I’M FINE!” He snapped back with a bit of a snarl, quickly his tone turns remorseful, “I’m sorry, I’m just having a really bad day” ……He’s in, where do we go from here? Here’s where we find the definition of the man, where does he go after he has already won the game? To bed? To Breakfast? To a bed and Breakfast.…..”What’s your name?” He asks, “Sheila, Sheila Fortson” she responds.

You're all I want
Along with the rest of it all

You make me vomit
But my vomit makes me smile
My colorful alphabet soup
Scatered on the tile floor
I would like to
Present to you
A scripturally contradicting metaphor
I love you

I went rummaging through my dignity
and I found you
You seemed to have misplaced yourself
among absolute truths
Well I think I'm going to retire to
the artistic point of view
Place your hands as earmuffs
I don't want you to think me shrewd