It's Time
Thoughts blow out like candles in the wind. I poisoned groundwater and feathered paper planes, burned my contact list and placed the numbers in middle school math problems. On heroin needles and smoke from bong hits, I walked across that teenage path of hot coals. Hot coals I threw in the face of mice and men, mostly mice, mostly meek, mostly missing from nothing really. This mountain i grew up on top of, the mountain that has crippled the trees and drowned the village full of sap from the broken missles of dead and dying trees. I'm not one for the earth, I enjoy a chicken wing every now and again. But when it gets that diseased in the town on the side of the mountain, the villagers forget that there is a mountain at all. Reinstated is a NWO of STARbucks, A SECRET from Victoria, The RebUBLIC of BANANNA's (disqualified in the first round for being unable to PLAY soccer/football), and cut into the side of life live million dollar hobos. I don't wish to be a million dollar hobo. If I become a hobo, I want to live in the dirt of subway handrails. I wish to ride the escalator up and down. If I become a hobo, I want to forget where I came from, let it become my nightmare and wake up to a cop whom I don't care about. If I am to become a Hobo, I want to burn. I want to burn into air, and bring some sort of understanding, even if I don't understand it or agree with it, I want to burn into understanding. Burn into mediation of regular human beings. But if I am not a hobo, I don't want to do anything you're doing. I would want nothing to do with anything at all. Call me by my name, call me...The Pitiful Mouse.