The blueprint of my future was drawn on a napkin yesterday. The drink that sat on top of it, it washed it all away. Now I wish that I could think of something rather clever to say to bring it back to existence, so I could make my grand escape. But I know the plans are gone, betrayed and far away, and that the start of tomorrow is yet once again delayed. And I can feel the energy disperse within the sun rays. And I can teach a child how to laugh; teach a child how to play. I don't want a map, I just want to rap. And maybe perhaps I can persuade to teach myself how to smile; teach myself to behave. It appears to be my curse, in which I stand and which I stay. And the mask I wear to bed will lie for me for one more day. And I know the pessimist is closer, rather than the far away, and that I am a meal for the hunter; I am his pray. I am a starving artist, and I will be hungry for days.

I tend to lose myself in thought when I ponder on prospect. I reserve the right to fight and bite the sight of slight regret. Insatiable, heartfelt; I once tried to protect. Where I reside an alibi to deny when I forget. I carry the weight one-thousand steps. I smoke one-thousand cigarettes. I place my bet and paid my debt; a chase that carried on vacant breath. With shallow steps, I failed the test, and felt affects that melt sunsets. With crooked sex and blatant wrecks; we all accept no respect. Half-erect and under-slept I wake upon new day. I expect the new and next will continue to fade away. I pretend that I am content with living my life this way, and file my memory banks with dirty dishes and stubborn waste. I ran a mile inside my mind every step along the way. I trip on every single word that I ever say. I am a starving artist and I am compelled to be this way.