chosen to share this shit with the wayward world,
my life and love is for the taking,
like a truckstop buffet outside of Bowling Green.
the rosebud asks me to think, trust, try,
but I decide to die everytime,
and that's why I eye the horizon.
constellations are stupid,
because they are relative,
the big dipper is a spoon.
spoons can be used for soup or heroin,
the choice is in the chooser
how he or she wants to pick up the solid action.
we are all falling through stars,
fading through light,
foreheads in front of minds.