I want to talk about cellphones and concert t-shirts.
my verses are wearing thin, the alcohol is far too sweet
at the bottom of the bottle where I keep the women poet.
drowning in youth, ripe with adulteress intentions.

the internet is robbing our youth, we are defenseless.
we need a 'spyware doctor' for the soul, and
bookmarkes for our tongues. umbrellas for
our crumbling insides. metal support beams
for our out of place spines. scaffolding all
up and down our hard lefts and low rights.
jackets to warm our liberation, knitted scarves
to protect our exposed sleeves. sliding closet doors
to hide our hearts, pillowcases so we may carry
our conviction; like Halloween candy.

money for the poor
drugs for the sober.
sex for the virgins.

there is no american dream.