This old man.
Giving up on his dreams of sleep.
Sweating the details gets him so tense.
So he weeps and he soaks his sheets.
Got to talk it out,
but when he opens his mouth he just chokes,damn.
Monsters in his head,
“get out!” thats what he told them.
He’s ready to surrender, can’t take the heat,
but he can’t seem to raise both hands.
Why bother with it,
when he can’t see nothing beyond where this road ends!
Keeps wondering what went wrong with the old plan.
So where does hope stand?
Unsteady on it’s feet,
But dancing with the devil sure felt like romance.
Said he’d raise the bars,
But now he just lives behind em with old friends.
And before long, he’s an old man.
Oh man, look at what he’s made of his life,
with his own hands.
As a potter he’s thinking,
am i a prodigy, or a prodigal?
cos right now neither one’s looking probable.
Promises from a rainbow and a fucking pot of gold.
The odds are stacking,
a mountain to move that seems impossible.
So he climbs it every now and then,
just to feel what its like to lack oxygen.
To get nauseous when he’s at the peak of exhaustion.
At this altitude, it clouds his thoughts and he’s lost in em.
Every second’s costing him.
Stuck in a jam while the traffic’s profiting.
And you wonder why he still lives in poverty.
Living off the government’s meals and property.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
He’s talking to mirrors and his comments derogatory?
He feels powerless.
Time’s running out and there’s no turning this hourglass.
Every grain is just a stain of his incompetence.
Pissing his life away, like he’s got incontinence.
This old man.
5 Nov 2022 / Jon Lau