Isn’t it all
a copy of a copy
of a copy after all ?
Isn’t art just someone else’s
idea melted into some new artist’s?
isn’t love just a copy of your first lover?
aren’t we just copies of what our parents were?
somehow trapped even when we try to rebel ?
what’s the point of wanting to create
if everything is already there?
We live once, and never have the chance
to come back and look at the choices we had
because there is no text book or school
that can teach us what life screams for
We are here to live life
we are here to kill time
we are here to drink and fuck
to scream and fight
until Death comes visit us
and the day we’ll die
there won’t be no time,
you could only wish
to offer her a drink
and hope she’s too drunk
so she falls asleep
and your lips don’t kiss.
But she’ll be back again
whores always do
even if they were satisfied
you could never run too far.