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Date Posted: 09:56:33 10/27/08 Mon
Author: dayvid aimz
Subject: Draw the Line pt.2

He didn't learn to draw the line between real and fake
Composite sketches of strangers he'd never meet
A psychotic killer, a petty theif, maybe they're locked away
Maybe sympathetic judges set 'em free
Flashbacks from a shaky childhood, abuse and neglect
He sit and drew sketch after sketch of a Superman
With slit wrists and a bloody neck
He draws a line between psyche's, the adult maniac
The young kid blocking out images he didn't like
A technicolor telepathic visual of residual nostalgia
Pain sustained from dead memories hurt like fibromyalgia
More lithium to calm his bipolarity, more legal pads
To draw sketches of a world where everyone's equally bad
As his reality is, dreams of defeating his dad
In so many impromptu fits of fisticuffs
Emotions just a ball of yarn mixed and twisted up
Can't pout even though he lost the sketch artist gig
Nothing he ever drew of the portraits panned out

Now he must draw the line between
One real world with a myriad of faults
Another one of illusory forays, where
Perfect lines are sculpted then bought
A panacea for every cough, in his loft
An invisible castle of brilliant ideas
He ducked into the chateau's
Hiding inside a quixotic career
Starving artist with a flair for metaphor
Had a son and daughter he never met before
Too many trips to Zion with Ziggy Stardust
His canvas is now scarred up
Reality for him is an extension of hard luck
Bills unpaid, this used car sucks
A Metro Geo with no radio
He makes up his own songs
Keeping dreams alive keeps his future prolonged
1 million notebooks full of tv pilots
Anarchism discourses, blueprints for planned riots
"I'm so sure", its his mantra of the day

He blows life into another balloon of idle wishes
He fishes in ponds of magic wand water
Shooting hopes into a brittle hoop, swooshes
He fights the phantoms and ghosts, "You're not real".
The schizomania worsens, all he can do is pop pills
Makes do with colorful quaaludes and grey goose
The depression tumors spread and swell like grapefruits
He wrote hisself into one of his working plots
He goes, "No, this isn't real, I've been burning pot"
"This is what pot does", when danger approaches
Why can he not run, rays from the hot Sun
Coalesce with his open chest, he can hear it talk
He hops into his Metro going west, so obsessed
Today its mind under matter, somehow
Dreamscapes engulf and overthrow the flesh
He's his worst nightmare personified
In the mindstate of an ideal idolized
He trys to find his way back home
A door back into the chaste-World
Where he can defile and rape girls
Hates it here where lucidity is daddy long dick

Everything ethereal with infinite alternates
You could just get lured in or fall in it
He got there thorugh deep meditations
Escaped Hell's in Satans personage
Cymbals crash while bells are ringing
He sits at the glass wall
Can't see over it, its that tall
They can look in but his visuals tinted
He scratched at the glass, cried, squinted
He could only see up to a certain limit
Who drew this line, was it destiny
A place in the dreamscape, "Its testing me"
He'd do whatever needed just to tell it
"OPEN SESAME", all the while he accumulates
Extra grief, more tears with severed reach
All there is in the glass wall
Is a reflection of his destroyed eco-system
Black clouds caused by negative thought
Swirling tornadoes that his inner-rage had brought
Fought with harsh winds and cold rains
Jagged snowflakes, inhaled like aquatic cocaine
I wonder when if ever, he'll DRAW THE LINE

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