I used to feel it in my heart but now I feel it in my bones. All my friends grew up or died and now I'm all alone, standing next to a pile of dead canaries in a coal mine, with a head full of deadlights, trying to get mine. I've got no nothing in mind, I’m trying to hide from dead ends while punctuating my penance like it’s one long run-on sentence. My penmanship is graffed up cause I act up and never listen. I'm equal parts Pinky, The Brain, Snake Plissken, and Jesse Pinkman. I don’t fuck with you if you’ve gotta ask me if I fuck with you. Catch me heating up the walk-in cooler coughing up a lung or two. So just give me a reason and I'm going off the deep end, maybe forever ever, or maybe just for the weekend. Fuck knocking on death’s door, I’ma kick it down! Fuck biting my tongue, son, I’ma spit it out! Fuck knocking on death’s door, I’ma kick it down! Fuck biting my tongue, son, I’ma spit it out! There's no more Noble pursuit than throwing poop in the ceiling fan just to show the whole world how you’re feeling, fam, but damn. just remember that your roommates gotta clean up the mess, my man. Hot knives in the kitchen, bong rips in the bathtub, beers out back in the snowbank, we was getting mad drunk. Baggies full of stems and caps, belly laughs, and all of that. We were stranded on paranoid island, circa 2007. My man was on a bad trip tumbling down the stairway to heaven, burned out and barely lucid, way past "Ernest Scared Stupid." “Step on my throat!” the words bellowed from the belly of the beast. “Step on my throat!” he said it without a hint of comedic relief, looked me dead in my eyes and said he’d never really know peace. He wanted to die. We were on the darkside of our youth, marching in some moon boots, feeling like some straight-up goons, looking like the goof troop on acid, Dwight Schrute with a hatchet, Jim Halpert with halitosis and habit of knockin' em back like a catfish. Just some blood brothers booze cruising for some broken noses, one of us was halfway dead, neither of us could know it at the time. Life was all about the blind drunk blackout vacant. I went hard in the punk rock, you went hard hitting the pavement. I remember the first time you asked me to kill ya, it wouldn’t be the last time, in fact it became too familiar. It was all smiles and laughs in front of most of these cats, behind closed doors back at the pad everything was painted black. On many nights I’d wake up to the sound of your sobs, on many nights I’d wake up to breaking glass thinking we’re getting robbed but instead, I’d find you tearing your room apart in the dark. I wanted to put it all back together but didn’t know where to start. It would have taken all the kings horses and all the kings men, but you’d just pretend that things were fine and then that was where it would end. A wise man once said one day we’ll look back and laugh but you’re dead and gone, homie, I can’t even smirk when I look back. Whenever I look at your photograph I just really wanna ask you if you pondered what would happen before your sky turned black. I love you homie, I swear I'm not trying to put you on blast, but did you ask yourself what would happen before your sky turned black?

I've been gutted like a fish who never had a place to sit and faced a firing squad of fists after a last meal and final shit. So every place feels as out of place as outer space. I'll gladly fillet my face before I ever say grace. Wow, what a way to waste away. It only takes a day to make an ox out of a razor blade or a fading flame out of an inferno, my flamingo legs doth limbo. The red ferns don't grow and they don't shoot canoes no more. I've been muzzled like a beast of burden leashed up to the curb. Lip service is a zero-sum game when death is the dirty word. The elephant in the room's been painted black and white so we drain the blood 'til it's red all over like this is a sacrifice. I'm trying to vice grip sobriety in a society of muted minds who never truly mourn so they all seem blind to me. Call it an appetite for self-destruction or cannabis conjunctivitis but even my doctors can't tell me why I'm like this. I'm heavy empty. My head feels heavy empty, my heart feels heavy empty. Why do all my friends keep ending? I've been to hell and back, but the devil never turns his back on you Drink the paint down deep but you can't get darker than the hue of pain I've seen in the eyes of man, been trying to act like I'm the man, truthfully, I'm looking in the mirror and I'm that man with eyes so dark that they're opal white on opposite day. I'm afraid to shave because of the implications of having a razor blade up in my hand again. Standing stiller than a mannequin, mentally iller than a rabid pit, I'm still iller than your man and them. I've been back to hell as well, got the coffee mug, the t-shirt, the lack of impulse control that makes my childish outbursts knee jerk, at least that's what the shrink said when they was all up in my head back in third grade when I was afraid that they were poisoning my bread. I'm one long run-on sentence, If I've said it before I won't say it again. I don't like repeating myself and I've lost too many friends. They say they're all hangin' in the sky much in the same way that bricks don't, I say it never ends, but yo, it always ends though. I'm heavy empty. My head feels heavy empty, my heart feels heavy empty. Why do all my friends keep ending? And all my friends keep ending.