If you are vanilla, embrace your lame; all
that bean frenched in between; you may
change your name, and you might adopt
my prefix, but your aftertaste defines my
stain–your mask-of-the-day, is my angst
untamed–your suffix, will always remain.
Embrace your lame; Respect the facts of
diluted pain, from my callused palm from
my pink, red face; celebrate that they say
you’re okay; relish the purities intrinsic to
your lame, bland, boring, ass ways; Just,
never forget: you thought we weren’t, but
we were: we’re in front of you anyday; we
never had the chance to get jaded; this is
something we have always known–this is
all we know–So go fuck your paper cone.
To what depths really might my malts go;
How much must be spilt for you to know;
The napkins needed, Is greater than what
trees could grow; you might throw up, for
all I know, if you stir this soul; I’d let it go.
You never tasted Rocky Road; You never
went behind a parlor’s closed doors; You
never knew this truth in my myth, so how
may you comprehend the kicks you miss,
The implicit bliss, that is in a life as this; it
Is, under your head, you would not know.