He Asked Me What was Wrong

Folder: 
American Ritual

Subliminal diagnosis 

Is all the rage,

They tell you what's wrong

Of their own device,

A real rotten spice has 

Laced the air apparently,

The same situation I've

Lost my station in,

Somehow sinking into

Greater multitudes of 

Gray matter I've come 

To the realization that 

There's no stopping 

Mouths that chatter,

Crowds that scatter,

A little boys brains on 

The concrete splattered,

Though the vixens vices 

Are to be vicious

We insist they're visions,

Too bright to bury,

The excitement carries me away

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