waLL~é
Bayan Üye
when i first got into magic it was an underground phenomenon.
now everybody's like "pick a card...any card."
if i shot my full load with the first hand i played.
i'd be a monkey in a box hanging with the david blaines.
i'd be swimming with the sharks, mouths full of razor blades.
but i'm not. i got out of that game. escape artist.
i talk 'til i'm red in my face with strain polyps.
i'll rock 'til i'm out of my range then raise octaves.
i play through the pain and remain conscious.
refrain from commenting on the lame compliments
and the petty criticisms from those who ain't accomplished
even 1/5 of some of the shit i've made progress with.
i'm leaving neigh sayers stumped like rain forests.
after years of pulling rabit ears out of my pants pockets.
i'm not revealing any tricks of the trade.
it's just...there ain't no magic in the break down, baby.
in an effort to make them all see what i found in my life i decided i'd give them a look,
but none of them gave it a look and i guess i'm sitting in the middle of an unread book.
the letters are falling apart but the sentences stand on their own and the wording is permanent,
i've never been missed, i've just been misworded and misinterpreted.
it's funny how serving a sentence of solitary confinement
can result in the death sentences filling my writing assignment.
i'm just wonder where my time went. it pulled a disappearing act.
and every single assistant i ever had got sawed in half.
they never paid attention but i can't afford to laugh
because i'm still looking for my break and an autograph for my cast.
but i'm short on staff, so all i ask is for volunteers in the crowd
to show a little bit of audience participation now.
when i say "hip," you say, "shut the fuck up, we ain't saying shit!"
and i'll respect it. check it. i've got a flare for the dramatic exit.
a fashionable entrance. late to my own arrangement.
oh, the self destructive things i do for entertainment.
my folks gave me this art. your broken heart is my pallet.
while i was out honing my craft you were disowning your talent.
that's why you still live at home and i bought this house off my parents.
i'm getting ahead of myself. i see the hair on my back.
i'm on the road reading karoac. it's poems vs battle raps.
so i think to myself, "what's worth remembering?
verses defending the size of my manhood or confessional canned goods?"
in an effort to make them all see what i found in my life i decided i'd give them a look,
but none of them gave it a look and i guess i'm sitting in the middle of an unread book.
the letters are falling apart but the sentences stand on their own and the wording is permanent,
i've never been missed, i've just been misworded and misinterpreted.
it's funny how serving a sentence of solitary confinement
can result in the death sentences filling my writing assignment.
none of this is getting told in confidence i reckon.
i spin confidential records just to hold the listener's attention.
i'm a veteran of spatial relationships.
i clipped your wings to fit you in...head shrinking magician.
shape-shifting reptilian turned body contortionist.
orphanages started offering torches to abortion clinics.
i lost acquaintances in a morgue of lady friends.
i gender bent the heaven sent angelic devil boy. the god is androgynous.
i'm looking marvelous, but looks can kill.
and they're unsure about my sexual orientation still.
they put me in this special kind of case that only breaks if
you hit it with a bouquet of flowers and baby breath arrangement.
now the vault is vacant and they're all looking for fault or blame.
i called my agent the moment that i caught the train.
i let him know i'm going nowhere...and he's invited.
if he leaves tonight then he just might help me find it.
but this is my burden to bare. not his.
and i'm a psychic without a side kick holding the future hostage.
i'm a loose cannon standing on the rooftop with
a new respect understanding of bartenders and locksmiths.
they'd call me a dare devil but i'm not precise enough.
unprofessional on an amateur level. i love my life to much.
now everybody's like "pick a card...any card."
if i shot my full load with the first hand i played.
i'd be a monkey in a box hanging with the david blaines.
i'd be swimming with the sharks, mouths full of razor blades.
but i'm not. i got out of that game. escape artist.
i talk 'til i'm red in my face with strain polyps.
i'll rock 'til i'm out of my range then raise octaves.
i play through the pain and remain conscious.
refrain from commenting on the lame compliments
and the petty criticisms from those who ain't accomplished
even 1/5 of some of the shit i've made progress with.
i'm leaving neigh sayers stumped like rain forests.
after years of pulling rabit ears out of my pants pockets.
i'm not revealing any tricks of the trade.
it's just...there ain't no magic in the break down, baby.
in an effort to make them all see what i found in my life i decided i'd give them a look,
but none of them gave it a look and i guess i'm sitting in the middle of an unread book.
the letters are falling apart but the sentences stand on their own and the wording is permanent,
i've never been missed, i've just been misworded and misinterpreted.
it's funny how serving a sentence of solitary confinement
can result in the death sentences filling my writing assignment.
i'm just wonder where my time went. it pulled a disappearing act.
and every single assistant i ever had got sawed in half.
they never paid attention but i can't afford to laugh
because i'm still looking for my break and an autograph for my cast.
but i'm short on staff, so all i ask is for volunteers in the crowd
to show a little bit of audience participation now.
when i say "hip," you say, "shut the fuck up, we ain't saying shit!"
and i'll respect it. check it. i've got a flare for the dramatic exit.
a fashionable entrance. late to my own arrangement.
oh, the self destructive things i do for entertainment.
my folks gave me this art. your broken heart is my pallet.
while i was out honing my craft you were disowning your talent.
that's why you still live at home and i bought this house off my parents.
i'm getting ahead of myself. i see the hair on my back.
i'm on the road reading karoac. it's poems vs battle raps.
so i think to myself, "what's worth remembering?
verses defending the size of my manhood or confessional canned goods?"
in an effort to make them all see what i found in my life i decided i'd give them a look,
but none of them gave it a look and i guess i'm sitting in the middle of an unread book.
the letters are falling apart but the sentences stand on their own and the wording is permanent,
i've never been missed, i've just been misworded and misinterpreted.
it's funny how serving a sentence of solitary confinement
can result in the death sentences filling my writing assignment.
none of this is getting told in confidence i reckon.
i spin confidential records just to hold the listener's attention.
i'm a veteran of spatial relationships.
i clipped your wings to fit you in...head shrinking magician.
shape-shifting reptilian turned body contortionist.
orphanages started offering torches to abortion clinics.
i lost acquaintances in a morgue of lady friends.
i gender bent the heaven sent angelic devil boy. the god is androgynous.
i'm looking marvelous, but looks can kill.
and they're unsure about my sexual orientation still.
they put me in this special kind of case that only breaks if
you hit it with a bouquet of flowers and baby breath arrangement.
now the vault is vacant and they're all looking for fault or blame.
i called my agent the moment that i caught the train.
i let him know i'm going nowhere...and he's invited.
if he leaves tonight then he just might help me find it.
but this is my burden to bare. not his.
and i'm a psychic without a side kick holding the future hostage.
i'm a loose cannon standing on the rooftop with
a new respect understanding of bartenders and locksmiths.
they'd call me a dare devil but i'm not precise enough.
unprofessional on an amateur level. i love my life to much.