Twisted by the ballistic talk that’s aimed at me, raised by words with means of control, In the pit i sat and had a burst of Epiphany, oh they think what a sinner i am, for the fact that I’ve reached enlightenment before them, shout and sprout the thorns and twigs of greed and unjust, i break loose with the simple strength of i don’t give a fuck, i don’t mean to be rude but i know you don’t care, its ironic that i wait for irony to hit me, jogging through rain as lighting runs up against me, and i breath vapors of pollution but clear it out with breaths of a stoner.