[I'll be honest, what ppl try to convince me Sturgill Simpson is, I already got Malcolm Holcombe for, and Malcolm's not a cop]
Getting too easily lost in consciousness stream,
struggling for space to breath easy but trapped in place
that don't feel like home no more; fuck it, reframe dreams
into singlewide, take pride in natural grimeface
existence, never one to shine with perfection,
I'm a lounge in progress (fuck work), stacking milk crates
too high with piecemeal second-handed possession;
once I got spot to spread raven wings without weights
of what really ain't, my illegitimate art
will grow like dandelion and kudzu vine, climb
through the cracks in concrete, extending dirtgod heart
into larger world more fully, like fool, full-time
around-the-clock don't stop explosion of thought weeds,
because the gridlock's plots don't address my real needs.
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