Waster

I feel dead, or dying,

or that it ain’t worth trying,

I feel alone,

and grim,

and sad.

I hate my reflection

and talent for retention

in my mind for all that’s bad.

I’m flippin’, I’m floppin’,

and somehow ain’t stoppin’,

though I’m a fish on dry land.

And I’ll tell you it’s tough

when the seas get rough

and there’s no one to lend a hand.

But the clock is ticking ever on

there ain’t no pause for the whining

and though I wish I were long gone

the Devil’s got my soul for signing.

But I’m bruised and I’m battered,

my will and hopes shattered,

and all of me pieces of glass,

but despite all this prose

cause Heaven, she knows,

really

I’m just a pain in the ass.

And dying, or trying,

fighting or flying,

whining or wiggling on the line,

I can tell you this true

a fact through and through,

nothing can stop the ticking of time.

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