I'm always doing this.
Here I am, in deep meditation and brooding self-observation.
It's best I be blogging right now.
For the first time in 32 years, the spirit of suicide is translating into expression.
Like... right now, I want to carve and do stupid shit to myself.
But I won't!
And I'm not doing it!
I'm proud of myself.
I also came to the conclusion recently that, instead of killing myself or ending the world, I'll just end the lives of those who come against me.
Isn't that what all rappers talk about?
Still, I find euphoric serenity in the feeling of bleeding from the right side of my skull.
I hold secrets in there.
I require privacy for there.
This beer is flirting with the black blood of that side of my head.
This cigar is actually mating with the white meat of the left side of my skull.
I am currently working on myself.
All I talk about is music, and all I talk to is/are people who have hurt me intensely with my best interest at heart.
I have to find a way to please the hearts of everyone I come in contact with, or I will forever be alone and with nothing to show for it.
Either that, or...
Nah.
The best thing I can do, at least for myself, is be more compassionate to those who don't understand me.
My mental health is my problem.
I can only take responsibility for the mean things people have said and done to and about me.
Because I made them say it.
And no one wins if I kill or get killed or go to jail.
See?
i'm learning!
My blood tastes like weed.
-so mote it be
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