Walking
Alone
Walking alone is when I get my thoughts together. I’ve got passion and tone and now I pray for good weather. I ask the engineer when he’s done this, he said ‘never.’ But I’m on a role and I’m going to flow and I’m not about to sever. I look better when I’m out and about but about now I’m stressing and fretting and sweating about how I’ll put down these rhymes and beats up in your face. And this place, is it within my taste? Am I a disgrace? Do I belong at the end of the rat race? Should I ingest the cheese and take the poison just in case? I’d like to think that I’m an ace, working to beat the two. But I’m out of place, smiling only when I see you. To be true, you must be see through. Speak nonsense like an emu. You feel cool? That’s good, you’re on a direct path. And steal food? That’s wrong, you’re trying to select wrath.
An empath with maps is charting me, retardedly. He says success is so far from me it’s hard to be existent and persistent on keeping my forest, and hard to keep people from stealing my harvest. I’m feeling the farthest I’ve ever felt from heaven’s help. I’m reeling the hardest and concealing the artist and still healing the darkness to keep all my feelings from orange.
