throwing up lines to get my mind out of my stomach.

i'll drink down this cocktail of chemicals with a line of gun powder
with it i'll blast this writers block sky high
by the way she's shaking i'm guessing she practices perspiration
do you have a proposition to go with those lips?
why does everyone want to be eighteen?
kids are wishing minutes by
and grown ups are grumbling about 'ye olde days'
all i got to show for it are a couple of shitty songs
and pills to keep my skin clean
vocabulary.
how can i increase it when i can't even pronounce it?
i badly need a mentor, someone to not only look up to,
but who reaches down in times of need.
i'll have lost the "teen" in my age by the end of this year
not as scared of growing older, just afraid of growing up.
what do you do when the grass on the other side of the fence is black to?
do you just pack your bags and move?
how can i sit back and relax when everyones watching and waiting for something to happen?
gentleman with adrenaline: what a conundrum.
i for one have an itch its a contradiction, but who knows these days.
even the birds are flying away.
not so much the ones with wings, more the ones that walk these streets.
melodies will be the death of me.
they make everything so difficult.
but then i'm my own worst enemy.
i'm picky to the point that my skin doesn't even bother to scab
tree's of green, red roses to
"remember the songs we sang in high school"