For the past 90 days my muse and I have shared the flu.
My wit is congested and runny rhymes just wont impress you.
I'm rat fucked ten times, cause these things that I've written
Are my sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever, so I can get my rest medicine.

Then I got pissed off like I had shoved coke through my nose,
Put a blister hot rag over my face, and let each eye drop close.
I feel like working, time to take off my coat.
Cause those lyrics in my sinuses are draining down my throat.

Your ignorance smells like vomet caked to the piss on a toilet seat.
Have I mentioned that before? Is there an echo in here? Or am I hanging with Pete and Repeat.
And I swear to God I'll slit the eyelids of the next to say they hate AABB.
Force open their eyes, so they can see that free form poetry is just as easy.

I AM NOT A POET! I am a person who writes down my thoughts.
And today my trigger finger is itching, so someone's bound to get shot.
Furthermore, I don't care what you're into, sonnets or hip hop.
Because I trained with the best at the School of IHOP.

And No there is NO POINT! I just needed time to vent
about being sick, pissed and lonely, without enough money to pay rent.
I'm not stupid enough to believe I'm the only one who has it hard,
But they can talk about it too, If they send in a post card.

---

Confession time, I check for comments every fucking day.
It's sad when your self esteem is based on trying to touch somebody.
On top of that I'm not sure who I'm even writing to.
But I guess since were both here for the moment, the answer would be you.

Fuck! I'm out of cigarettes and my sinuses are stuffed again.
And all I ever have left is the check and this God Damn pen.
If a friend in need is a friend indeed then consider me your best.
Because I need a prescription refil. 500 milligrams of rest.

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