I’m a genius in fool’s clothing
Loathing the world
As it corrupts
Everything I care about
Remembering a decade ago
When we were getting buried
For talking about the changes
That need to be made
To make the world a better place
They called it the underground
That authentic sound
The real
The deep
Shit
That they dug up
Throw it into pop culture
The kind of stench you can’t avoid
But you want to forget
So you talk to your therapist
Count to ten
Deep breaths
The scent makes you wretch
Now you’re diagnosed with illness
Stretched
Out in a hospital bed
Waking from the dead
With your eyes open
Looking around you
Seeing all the sickness
And that’s when you ask for the morphine
So you can lose yourself
And have the scene fade away
Sated
Filled with all you could take
You wake in your home
Happy just to be alive
With the lights off
Better if you don’t look
There might be demons
You have to fight off
The complacency
But you won’t
They satisfied your rebellious nature
Then tagged on futility
It’s all you can do
To keep your utilities
And there have been times
When I cared if you
Could make sense of these rhymes
But this isn’t one of those
I’m just letting the pen
Follow the flow of my hand
Not caring if you understand
I suppose
The prose is trying to tell you
I grow weary
Of these mediocre clothes
Nothing but skin and hair
Wasting the hearts and the souls