A bird to the nest

By Clarence Kulpe

Here I stand, still a man with a plan,
walk the land with a can in my hand from Japan.
Mos def, I’m a travelling man,
I’ve seen it all like a cat with a scan.
MRI sh*t, alive and I like it,
my mind used to think suicide but that died quick.
No, I meant die slow, long like the ride home,
turned off the lights had to stop all these live shows.
I know, it is rough sh*t,
tuning these truths in a room up in Brunswick,
And this mood got me love sick,
on booze before noon so excuse all the mumblin.
My excuse why I’m stumblin,
flew to the moon just to touch it.
High for the f*ck of it, fly in the mothership,
alive but dying to survive through the suffering.
Flirted with death through some words in a text,
sipping bourbon depressed, put earth in the chest,
learn to be cleansed, then return to the dirt like a bird to the nest.
Born here as a son of a queen,
worked to turn a nightmare into a wonderful dream.
Real speech, know my mama’s a g,
it’s embedded like some denim through the blood in my genes.
I wake up and just breathe,
alive, or did I die and just got stuck in a dream.
What to believe, looked up above and dropped to my knees,
sit and lingered then I figured out that god is in me.
Took the stairs on the way up,
take drugs scale stare till it weighs up.
So stoned yet sober as a rock
Diazepam dreams but was woken by the gods
Flirted with death through some words in a text,
sipping bourbon depressed, put earth in the chest,
learn to be cleansed, then return to the dirt like a bird to the nest.

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