autopsy in real time

There is no top shelf solution for this There is no alternative Let’s call it what it is There is no fight left in me I cannot commit I left a thousand years ago I’m tired of the cruddy songs I can’t even sing along to my own shit I wrote before I can fit a thousand lies in between a couple rhymes and try to make you cry to 4 dumb chords The poetry is killin me I’m clingin to a middle C I’m copying everything I wrote Let’s call it what it is again I’m careless to the fucking end Until I let go And maybe in a couple years I won’t plug my fuckin ears every time Logic plays my track If only in another life I could calm a wildfire-calculated angle of attack So much for a five year plan stick it to the fuckin man I can’t remember damn amnesiac Drivin while I’m fuckin blind I’m losin my fuckin mind journeyin round a cul-de-sac There is no top shelf solution for this There is no alternative Let’s call it what it is There is no fight left in me I cannot commit I left a thousand years ago (written 2025)