quick write

I have a good heart in my chest, all be it not the best, but it hangs heavy, made of gold, squeezing the very air from my chest. Raining on life's parade, like sour drops of acidic lemon aid. I wish for these pains I were paid, I would make the bed of woes out of designer clothes and hoes like rap video's. Lie to myself, hang my morals on platinum hangers off pinocchio's nose. I wish it weren't like it was, but was like it were, in turn yesteryear seems so distant in the distance of my rear view mirror; object may be closer than they appear. Who are you with that single tear? What have you become, child that came up escaped from love maybe lust and all of the above to a latex glove: a puddle of cum? Where will you run when shit gets thick? Grab a nick, puff it down, grab a bic, write it down, add some sound, dumb it down, run around with some clowns, find some death and lock it down, friends drop flowers, on your grave mound? I'm stuck in a raging white water river that runs in the street through wall street over beaten rocks that leave me torn and tattered bleeding on front street useless like old meat, except if you stew it. But naturally you need pressure for that, plain heat won't do, so along with the mushroom clouds of self-doubt you get the world dropped on your shoulders too, and then get told to "do you". But how, I wasn't built for this, I was made of love from above so the hate is beneath me. No matter how you treat me. Nothing like the bleeding me, looking from rooftops at swaying trees wondering why that can't be me? Still, powerful, life giving, with shade from all directions, not thinking of new homes for these old erections, just standing tall, not caring about balling, guns, or alcohol. But since stars are born from explosions and order comes from chaos I will keep the faith faintly, that maybe fortune will smile in my favor and I can chip her off a piece of this worn golden heart. But I have to get up, cause that's where it all starts.