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Fuck Trust-fund Babies
sweet as a peach, choke down the pit,
expert, to even the most seasoned devil’s advocate,
rock, but far from autistic,
me love? then we must consider god realistic,
laugh at the thought, powerless over such reality,
dusty tunes, sample the forbidden scent of immortality,
hate what i have, as the value grows with time,
unmotivated, like a windless day’s wind chime,
sure, to you i only expose the crust,
molten heart formless, poured in a vat labeled: ’the unjust.’
