The sanctimonious ritual of being human
Can be so difficult to loosen
Tie the noose on, rid this self-destructive fusion
It entangles with my perceived views on
Being a man, bound by confused dons.
Burdened by this hardened exterior,
Feeling inferior, clenched fists hide this hysteria
Insipid malaria attacks within our interior
Feeding our illusions of standing superior.
We feel existential dread
Weighing heavy on our heads
Yet simple conversation is to parley with the dead,
Ill thoughts we take alone to our beds
Silently erode at our confidence instead.
We find comfort in a bop,
Purpose in that Daily Paper top
And front non-stop,
Song of innocence start to rot
Whilst our head tops straddle leaf blotched crops.
These pus-filled wounds continue to seep
Yet under the rug we sweep,
Conversations that will cut deep
Competing to be the hairiest of sheep
Yet gas a mans Air 97s he keeps.
Perceived weaknesses we chastise
Bass in your voice submerged by skeletal cries
Lost within a chasm of sanctified lies
Real eyes recognise real lies
Fam I can see the pain in your eyes.
We move with style and grace
And link up to touch base
With bags of energy we routinely misplace
Yet too shook to fully embrace.
Leaving yard sets a pack of hounds,
Hands bound, Glasgow smiles to found
The world set out to find those to be ground
Found head down to the ground bearing no sound.
Type Mr typist, the young carbuncular awaits
Deciduous leaves abdicate whilst myself I mutilate
These bait traits we mitigate threatening to inundate
We self-medicate whilst innate traits marinate
It’s time we elevate, excavate the shit we incubate
Cos it’s only our ourselves we desecrate,
Quietly grating at our souls, forming a replica so fake.
