PEANUT BUTTERS

Greetings and salutations, this is flightmaster parlicosta smit. You have met the third sun on a highway to nowhere, left in your daydream as the clouds seem to crumble, like the wind against the sand, exposing the rock of ages. Yet you still seem to be dreaming, a silly, silly fool you are. You still seem to be blinking, stuck to the dead end sign. It's at the end of the road for you, and it's fine. 

'Cause you can always walk backwards, if you use a little force. Yes, you should be able to turn back, that's what they always told you, While they smash and fold you into the palms of their sweaty human hands. I can't stand to see a cryer, a dieyer, a sinker, or the suckers that pretend to be so. But you could be a dreamer, so pass by my doorstep, and wave hello and goodbye, incase someone is there to see it. If it's deserted, then you have done your job. If not, you have done it twice. 

All you ever wanted to be was good

Doing all the things they say you should

Everybody seems to think you would

But you're going somewhere else now,

Where is that funny feeling now?

Has it taken the place of the face on you're brain?

And now… All you feel is that pain. That need- that yearning- 

And you don't know why. Every day you shake- as if you had just been running from something. You're going mad. You meet old friends- but they never existed outside your head until now. Did they? Did you? Maybe you're just a reflection of a fractured statement, smacked on the head until it bled the words of the chosen one, the one you chose. Once. Not for a while, but maybe yet again, if you're cleaver enough. Just try to be good- But good is very vague, conflicting, and sometimes quite ironic. Be your own good, if you're good enough. If not, then wander on the ice until you find the rest of the nomad kind. Find the second sea, then the next, then the next, until you find the last one. 

And you're stupid, stupid, stupid hands smell like Big Bertha. 

I really don't like stomachs. They smell bad.

Anyways, so take the costal route to nowhere, and paint a pretty picture on the wall for the passerby, for the on-the-fly, for the don't-know-why, and for your mum.