you know, i used to be the back porch poet with my books of rhymes; always open knowing, all the time. i'm probably never going to find the perfect rhyme, for "heavier things."
so here we stand; but we stand for nothing. my heart calls to me in my sleep. how can i turn to it? 'cause i'm all locked up in this dark place - and i do not know. my head aches - warped and tied up; i need to kill this pain. my head won't leave my head alone, and i don't believe it will, 'til i'm six feet underground.
i don't wanna be, so different; but i don't wanna be, insignificant. i don't know how to see the same things different, now.
and if you hold on tight, to what you think is your thing, yo
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