|Blogs > MoreThanUrUsedTo > Big Dick Down South|
There is no poetry in this
There is no magic, no meter, and no flow in this
There is no action in this
this slow methodical march to the American Dream
There is no glamour, excitement, or fun in playing THIS game.
Putting up with people's shit, at a job that don't pay shit, so I can keep my shit at home, get some shit to eat, and maybe buy more shit
The melody is malady
The harmony is harming me
And the chorus
Well, my core understanding of this fugue is
the verse of a versioned note
the burst of aversion's throat
averse to this virgin rote
"I'm not ready"
"You're not THE ONE"
Happy hour became overtime
Weekend road trips became home improvement
Midnight romps in the bed became "I have a headache"
And it's this big
and it's got a slow soul pill of priority, propriety, and prudence written all over it.
So I empty my medi-sin cabinet and change the radio and get my too young for AARP, too old for MTV ass out there again.
I find that people are still playing the same games that they did before
People are still calling the same names that they did before
People are still using the blame game, as they did before
but one thing has changed...I know all of this now
I can take the person with a fake who's lip synching my life and boot them
I can call the fake who's bootlegging my fashions and my culture and boot them
I can stay out and drink all day, with some water to chase away hangovers
And I know that those like me will like me and those who don't won't...and that's ok
That's how I want my song to go
That's the verse I want
In my poetic life.