if i wrote a song

so in my plaid pants and obscure band shirt i'll sleep
after deluding that screamo is not my propensity.
i'll dream i'll arise content at 6:15
and at my 9-5 i won't sing asinine mainstream.

life's a ruptured balloon - shredded askew -
each withered latex fulfilling only while new.
every rose - bloodless. every photograph fades blue.
weary of procuring myself - lonely - i'll hunt you.

grey hairs not from thought but lack thereof.
my depth is reduced to paste and makeup.
i'll skip, like on sinking bricks, on hearts depleted.
inspiration. my power. unplugged.

a sculpture injected with styrofoam
cursory metropolis drinks and i'm home.
this rhymed meter is moronic like the death of our phone.
like a sloth-minded bird, oh God, i'm undone and alone.