This is the nightmare from which he cannot wake,
He quells his fear of out-and-out failure,
By shunning the regurgitation,
Of miserable life histories.
In a gauche attempt to cover his own whimpering,
He simpers like a naughty child,
Embarrassed of being caught with his,
Hands in the candy jar once too often.
He’s one of the self-same stuck records,
He’s sick to the stomach of hearing,
Headed for the same recycling center as the rest but,
Puking up the past, leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
Reality is a cordoned off crime-scene.
A house of secrets, frustration,
An addiction, and curse of,
Fattening the parasite,
While repressing the beast.