Look at me.

I never been so thin.

Heavy; heavy; I'm feeling so heavy baby.

Heavy; heavy, you got so heavy on me.

When I was once young, I used to be all you adored.

All you you could ever need.

Your providence of avoiding the voice of the light.

Your welcome heart, and way to the dream.

Your biggest star; your only star.

Now, you look at me with disgust, and you tell me come on baby loose some weight.

I used to think you were just being modest, until you pushed me into the wall, then you asked me do I remember the time we painted it pink.

Then I replied;We only destroyed it's true color, when I bleed over it, and you tried washing the stains all out, from breaking my nose in an argument.

It was the reason I regret seeing you making the taste of love cold and bitter.

The memory of growing up all alone, and barely surviving the raging seasons, it's been done; this lying down wherever they throw me away.

It's been low all of the time, can't fix it now.

Undo the pain.

I'm bitter and dark like Pepsi because you won't touch me unless you want to throw me away.

I'm cold, when it pours rejection reign upon my pores.

Opening up my senses; volumes of pain unreal I feel like dying my sister cola white, so with one good glance at me you'll see Pepsi in my coffee eyed rivers I've poured over you.

Sometimes I swear you like to make me feel like running away. I'm just a can of Pepsi.

I don't deserve to be delivered into pain.

It shoots the heart into the soul, but nobody cares to share this part, if the anatomical foundation of these walls were anymore fragile I would not be.

Let me be.

Let yourself pretend to empathize.

Let the solar systems reign Pepsi down, blessing me with that overcooked lung tone tonight upon my face.

Lets wait for the configuration circle to buffer the gif of inhaling weed clouds, so thick it's a foggy night all throughout the dawn, but I indulge off the levels of my isolation.

You're murder on my lips while I stop to turn up the acid to my colen.

You give me colen Cancer, so intoxicating on my heart.

I don't farewell here, I don't know how to break into this business this year.

I'm not taking in too well; seriously; I have an autistic melody just to last the bass, a cover of being the American dream.

Running off raffle tickets for the Mills, I don't owe you anything but bitter tastes and soar throats due to hardcore weather changes through the fizz.

Going to be the very best thing you scornfully soon swallow me in just to be fit for.

Your deepest desires.


Contingency funds, nor nationalities mean nothing more than going to forty- fourth street.

On a summer day this fourth of July.

Whether you're mainstream, or syncing with difficulties, on and off duty.

I'm color blind, in a summer haze.

Stumbling over my words, in prolonged days, waiting for someone to save me from the blacking out, catch me in your rainforest midst, before I faint.

I promise you if you forget all about my PsychoAngelic Gene aqufeena and Fanta ;you won't have anything to become disappointed about.

Paralyzed physics the philosophy remits paranoia.

Because the phobia of loosing the sense to crave the

Gold rush is more petrifying than the loss of memory.

Take me to the store of youthfulness, where the fountain machine give you ice; gives us more more more than just a thrill.

More than a chill that runs down your ancestors spine.

I need this.

Not just another drink, but a cold one that chase the memories that floods the hall.

I need this.

Something to forward this anxiety to the past.

Someone to talk to all through the lonely nights.

Give me a sign, or a Pepsi.

I won't waste it away like alcohol.

Give me six three litter bottles for hire.

Bottles for bladder uncontrol, line them up at the bottom of my refrigerator.

Because if you don't have a cold one, you might not get to enjoy the rest of the week.

I won't be caught without it, gotta have it overflowing through the energy.

Release your interventions, free your ambitions.

Decide the new coalition.

Cosign for the affiliation.

Today it's insulation, tomorrow could be higher inflation.

Power Wine even though the final strike; final blow inventory more deviation outlawed devastation.

Count civilian casualties sich toll, on out of place mats, to pile the dead mesothelium oxygen build up.

Bacteria build up.

The tension build.

Traffic builds up, sororities beef up like static interfering with the program rioting.

The postwar rackettuering; the academic gnawing at the intentions of employers on a bluer world.

Sometimes I just want to sit by and watch just to let it all in to catch my breath.

Holding up a Pepsi in both hands, like a child with small hands.

Catch my breath for the surveillance; for the scenery I have to be the one who feels up the tank, moving up the ranks of a cold one.

Don't tell me that you feel you're no one, you are someone, when you have one.

Don't panic at the disco, if you run low there's more in the trunk.

Authorship by Mr Dashaun Rashod Snipes

© Dashaun Rashod Snipes

© All Rights Reserved