The Dead Phish are Grateful

The Dead Phish are Grateful

A Poem by The Last Poetic King


Upside down,
Painted up like a clown
Tethered to life by a string
Feathered down like a freak

Outcast, labeled, freak
Spoiled milk, friends in your head
Demons in your sheets, w****s on your bed
Alcohol and cigarettes, smelling of defeat
Looks like somebody skipped a beat

Contemplating ways to end,
Maybe glue is a means to mend
Whatever, whatever, who cares anyways?
Never did, never will, f**k you

Nonsense, nothing, freaks on the streets
Cover your face, hide from protest,
Vanity swirls in this circulating abyss
Facial cysts 

Gun loaded, steel to the head
Art on the white wall, blood red
Everybody please clap your hands
This masterpiece is sure to end

Roll on, roll on
How long, how long?
End, end, bend, mend,
Whatever it means, the end

© 2015 The Last Poetic King

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Added on June 5, 2015
Last Updated on June 5, 2015


The Last Poetic King
The Last Poetic King

there, Unknown

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