I’m The Man
I’m the man, with the trembling hands, a rented room, alone in a Sunday doom, there’s no one here, except that slow and slouching fear, that all my days are boredom and minimum wage.
Because you work all week, behave and slave and count the fucking days until you, break, down and out, because it’s easier than being around.
I’m the man, with the trembling hands, and I don’t mean to, but I fall short and I fall through, it’s how I’m raised, by this town and society, the fierce and brave, tipped in to the unmarked grave.
A hell in parallel, another friend just killed themselves, can’t tell, by all the well trained years, of holding back all the tears.
I’m the rage, that won’t be diminished of assuaged, when I realise, I’ve internalised the lies, I carelessly caught, to reinforce my fractured front, and that’s their trick, born blank and grown up sick.
Stem the thoughts that flow, with night, moonlight and drink and blow and show that heart of stone, TV on, in the vapid escapist home, magnolia lino alone, and a fear right down to the bone.
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