Don't Feed The Machine

I awoke somewhere between the war of ambition
teetering on the line of fact and fiction
getting burned by the friction
of self savior and victim
enriched with not so God like decisions
birthed within the laws written
plagued by the infinite question
whether religion is a creation of God?
or is God a creation of religion?
to keep us livin’ in the perforated image
christened in our own obsession and sickness
pushin’ the limits conjured by existence
life is a game of inches
but its hard to move forward
when you lack the vision
to judge the distance to the finish
a dishwasher in Hell’s kitchen
drowning in black holes
once covered by my burned bridges
walk a mile in my shoes
if my angels permit it
consumed by daily pace
getting a leg up in the human race
do my features still describe a human face?
capable of human grace?
wondering if I put my heart again
will there be someone who takes?
chase my convictions of spiritualism
didn’t inherit my fathers alcoholism
but I got his rage and pain
coursing through my veins
his muted traits is what my music makes
hold it back and let my dreams react
to the ghost of the man in black 

Open time, open door
open mind, open sore
open scheme, broken dreams
broken breathe, don’t feed the machine

This one goes out to my biological father
who didn’t bother after takin’ my mother to the alter
sought to destroy his creations
pushing women to devastation
forcin’ them to touch elevation
rethinkin’ the scope of the presentation
separation all in a blink
lost soul in the drink reflect in the sink
oldest son on the brink of drugs and jewelry
back then that’s what suited me
listeners will understand if they knew
how the hunger pain were doing me
I thought weed, sneakers and women
were the proof of me
til friends were murdered brutally
bullet wounds shook in me
that the hand of God wasn’t movin’ me
now I’m cruisin’ streets with my grandmothers wisdom
she said not to be a victim of the system
be the voice of the people
shine the worded image on their sickness
show the children there’s more to life
than hustlin’ in front of buildings
there’s lots of things in the world that can kill them
that the world can build them
if they let go the feeling of the ceiling
and bring a difference element
with my last will and testament
this ones dedicated to my wastelands brethren
I’m sorry our music didn’t do a better job to better men
I guess the world wasn’t ready to take the medicine


Leave a comment

    Add comment