the art of self-sabotage (celebratory polka dance redux).

draft 2 (the art of self-sabotage) - 29/06/2021.

my mental gymnastics keep well hidden the gaps in my armour.
i grind my mind against burden to make my wit sharper
to never burn out bright before i dulled down to a dim glow.
if this is all that life is, i'd rather the choice to just forgo.
i keep myself warm by dressing in the skin of my regression.
this houdini of self-harm is ready for his final act of deception.
i am man made of glass crushed beneath the weight of casted stone -
the mastermind behind the manhattan project of chances fucking blown.

and every day i'm doing better but please don't get your hopes up.
i've still got many things to learn about how badly that i suck.
everybody clap their hands to the beat of my fuck ups.
i'm just searching for a break but i'm shit out of good luck.

pick at the edges slowly fraying, strip away the costumes and camouflage.
i sell myself out to my enemies - i am the sun tzu of self-sabotage.
i stumble willingly into the same traps, ambushed time and time again.
there is no discernible difference between the ills of mice or men.
will that every ill-fated prophecy remember me; an impenitent thief.
shill for every ill-laid plot and scheme, and attempts at weaponized grief
that unraveled like a tapestry sewn from the bloody fleece dying lamb.
bled dry like piano keys - fake ivory from the horns of diseased ram.

and every day i'm doing better but please don't get your hopes up.
just keep your expectations low so i can fit under that bar.
everybody clap their hands to the beat of my fuck ups.
i swear i'm doing better but i won't make i wont make it that far.

every bend that fails to break becomes another thing that weakens,
a dog that refuses to learn will become a another dog constantly beaten.
indiscriminate and volatile are the heavy hands of a wicked man.
where he crawls he exhumes pestilence and brings about salted land.
i am the king of shameless betrayers. i built my throne upon deceit.
the ixion of hopeless romantics; oblivious, as the cycle repeats.
i raise a kingdom from the ashes of my unapologetic aberrations.
i ride the ferris wheels of fire from my self-immolation.

draft 1 (celebratory polka dance) - 08/06/2021

 and every day i'm doing better but i won't get my hopes up.
everybody clap their hands to the beat of my fuck ups.
i swear i've learnt my lesson about how badly that i suck.
i'm just looking for a break but i've ran out of good luck.

and every day i'm getting better but i won't make it that far,
just keep your expectations low so i can fit beneath that bar.
every one of my friends worry but they don't know what to do
because every little problem seems to start and end with you.

incredulous.

when i first arrived in this place i was so sure that i was ready,
i laid down maps to plot my path but couldn't keep the pencil steady.
i'm forever grabbed by callous hands when i'm reaching out for guidance,
constantly forced back into the same routines of placating my over-reliance.
i subsist solely off of spite, carried on the backs of friend's sympathy,
another prophecy self-fulfilled from the stunting of an emotional infancy.
i exchange the good-will of others for enough coin to pay my dues
so if my silver tongue is worth anything, well try to rip that out too.
merely a vessel being controlled by the demons clawing through my sobriety
so the significant efforts of my best intentions, rotted away by this anxiety.
my most prolific inactivity amplified through the lens of my stupidity,
the bend that forced the break can be pinned only upon to my rigidity.
i think that i'm so clever, although it's probably pretty obvious that i'm not,
i'm forever analogizing my folklore around the tales that i've forgot.
i'm throw down from my pedestal but my feet never reach the ground;
i swing like some petulant pendulum wearing my noose as a crown.

burden/ruin/callous

cowards and heathens; craft your thrones from your malice,
dress your temples and chapels with depictions of atlas.
burden. oh, burden; bare such an intolerable weight,
bound to become another mimicry of sisyphus' fate.
ruin. oh, ruin. i wear the crown of cancer personified,
focused on the acts and the traits which you've glorified.
callous. so callous. cut throats dressed deep in the shadows,
and reverence in the misery of the dying lamb's throes.

rot.

 i pull the straps to tighten the mask of my human disguise,
while forced to perched; forever balanced, perfectly atop knives.
this self-fulfilling prophecy is an inevitable early, demise
from bleeding dry atop the pulpit upon which i self-aggrandise.
whet the steel of blunted blades against my flaking skin,
follow worms down rabbit holes used to burrow their way in.
break these brittle bones and strip the flesh away from rot
while i recall the things i've learned about properly tying knots.

 

hey dude, i hate everything you do
but i'm trying really hard to not hate you.
hating you won't make you suck any less.

an underwhelming illusionist.

i think this sucks heaps. i'll probably change it a lot. i'ma start putting the original draft(s) into my posts when i edit things now.

draft 2 (8/4/21). -

i've toyed with being honest but it just won't compete with the nonsense i spew or all the shit that i eat.
despite my best efforts, you were never once deceived by any trap that i laid or single web that i've weaved.
its getting difficult to fall for the theatrics i stage because every trick and illusion is showing its age.
my memory's an escape artist with the way it contorts with it's delusions unraveling through psychiatry reports.

i still follow these diagrams etched deep in my hands and i again practice sticking my head into the sand. 
my mind runs in circles some dumb man on fire, that will burn out real bright like a funeral pyre.
if my head were a fleet, the ships would all sink from the holes that appear in the ways that i think
and the gaps in my logic that i always trip over or cracks that show through my total lack of composure.

my ever idle hands are some other devils plaything, some stupid marionette suspended by heartstrings. 
it's those same rusting wires that have become my garrote and make up every bullet i've caught in the back my throat
so i try to stay upright with no assistance over-head but i am too weighted down by this collection of lead. 
my inactivity is consummating my inevitable downfall, so laid my best plans to cut short the rest of life's long-haul.

draft 1 (5/4/21). -

i've toyed with being honest but it just won't compete with the nonsense i spew or all the shit that i eat.
it's difficult to fall for all the theatrics i stage, when every trick and illusion is showing its age.
despite my best efforts, you were never deceived by any trap that i lay or single web that i've weaved.
my mind runs in circles some the dumb man on fire, that will burn out real bright like a wooden funeral pyre.
if my head were a fleet, the ships would all sink flooding from holes that appear in the ways that i think

the rat.

i lick my wounds to infection so that they never recover,
i spread sick and disease while i cannibalise others,
another parasitic plague that breeds with decay.
i guide young lambs to the slaughter that i've lead astray
so i can harvest their wool to keep pulling it over my eyes
and to add on new pieces to my human disguise.
though all my carefully crafted armours cannot hide the fact
or the constant reminders, i'm nothing more than a rat.

i thought i felt your shape but i was wrong, really all i felt was falsely strong. 
i held on tight and closed my eyes, it was dumb. i had no sense of your size.

the last two/three months have been awful. everything fucking sucks.

downward spirals/unbreakable cycles.

i write myself into dead ends and then randomly change the topic of the next line(s). i also don't think i cleanly transition between different metaphors and themes at all. very ham-handed, fists of ham, etc.

please won't someone break down the meaning of the stupid joke for me?

since everyone's laughing, they think it's so funny although i'm pretty sure that it's not really.

it seems i'm becoming a person far too serious; a stupid killjoy of my own creation, 

although i'm not too sure if i've become a puppet to either my age or desensitisation.

i use my head as a shovel to keep digging myself deeper into these downward spirals,

still stuck circling around the same seemingly unbreakable cycles.

if only i could learn to untie the wires before my deadweight pulls tight the slack,

or maybe i could drop the act before my breaking, blistered fingers crack

or they finally break from the strings they've attached to every lie i have written.

how i pen myself as a victim and twist words to frame everyone else as the villain.

when i eventually write my curtain call - it'll be premature; met with no applause.

one big anticlimax, of this i so sure, mostly due to the stringency of australia's gun laws.

no fireworks set to explode from the millions of holes that make up my head,

only some lonely, old man and a hammer there attempting to board them up instead.

i swear i'm slowly succeeding, learning not everything can be compartmentalised,

though it'll probably be far too long before i can muster the courage to face you all and apologise. 

judas.

the turncoats and cowards concealing the vowels that make up their dull blades.
every judas begs for an exchange of their soul for a pittance of silver in trade.
the sickly and bastards sit atop a broken pulpit of serpents and dirty swine.
while these cut-throats and bandits continue the habit of steel-whetting against brittle spine.
each of their sheep will meet sharp teeth, either by that of the wolves or shepard's kin
though their babies will lay to rest nestled in garments tailored neatly from their skin.
guilty souls will wither away to nothing, somehow unable to sustain the drought.
too busy learning to make tinder of the forest before the family tree branches out.

sooky boy.

this is a really bad ajj/pat schneeweis/chris burrow rip-off even though i can neither play guitar nor sing. i'm mostly just posting it so my brain will categorize it as "done".

i've spent at least several years trying to make heads or tails of this shit so i guess i can be called a recovering gambling addict
or maybe a teenage alcoholic with broken bottles of anarchy, though now i only breathe the fumes of noxious human bastardry.
why's the world so thoughtless to force the bend until the break? what's the reason for the nightmares seeping into parts where you're awake?
i'm often using my heart to barter with pretty girls from big cities but i always seem trade it in for shitty cigarettes and self-pity.
don't give up or it's pointless, you better remember you have at stake. remember that dying is for losers and suicide's for fucking fakes.
continue feeding delusions, always keep lying to their face. everyone always moves so quickly at a speed i cannot seem to ever out-pace.
not smoking anymore's for quitters, the whole world will turn to cancer. worship and prayer from sinners for their god never once to answer.
why's any attempt to cease the war machine either outlawed or illegal? can the bourgeois please breakdown for me the legality of good and evil?

you'd think by now i'd have wised up but apparently i'm just too ignorant
or i'd have learnt to read between the lines but too bad that i'm illiterate
or if things would ever add up but i was never that great with my math
or if i could show some emotion but i'm afraid that i'm a psychopath
or i'd have finally found solutions without reverting back to alcohol
or stop failing the few that look up to me because i am bound to fall
or i'd have let myself off the hook but i'm still yet to find an escape
you think by now i could hit the nail on the head but it's bent so out of shape.

sick.

"sick" is should probably be the title for this but i feel like i'm ripping off ceremony.

i'm sick of feeling like a worn down piece of shit - sick of constantly dealing with it.
i'm a little sick of this pointless existence - getting real sick of calling it quits.
i'm getting pretty sick of verbs and nouns - beyond fucking sick of jotting it down.
i'm really, really sick of voices and sounds - kinda very sick of cowards and clowns.
i'm a little sick of Connor Oberst - getting real sick of whoever i'm with.
i'm getting sick of listening to Asking For It - pretty fucking sick of Elliot Smith.
i'm very, very sick of phones and tvs - kinda really sick of technologies.
i'm kinda sick of things being how they have to be - i'm so fucking tired of being me.

i'm rewatching attack on titan and that's pretty cool.

this fucking sucks. big poopybutts. this will get edited and changed a lot.

when i first arrived in this place, i was so sure that i was ready,
i laid down maps to plot my path but couldn't keep the pencil steady.
i'm forever grabbed by callous hands when i'm reaching out for guidance
they take me in and taught me their methods to bolster my over-reliance.
i suppose that i'm fed up with stomach pumps and modern psychiatry,
the significant effort of my best intentions rotted away by anxiety.

each of my fists will stay clenched as the monthly budget of drug addicts,
as tightly as ex-girlfriends did, dragging the blades along their wrists.
i think i've had enough of watching friends die to methamphetamine
and stripping flesh in order feed the gnashing teeth of the war machine.
i've lost count of the amount times i've mistaken comfort for discontent,
i hope i'm there when the penny drops because i need the cash to pay rent.
i'm in over my head, drowning in the failing throes of this fascism
but if the bourgeoisie had their way, i'd be throwing copper at alcoholism.

i split my lips on kissing you realizing i'd rather die alone, i'd rather die alone.

big fucky wucky.

very cringe. many bad.

i'm a selfish, young child crying over lost toys,
if i ever got them back i'm sure i'd totally destroy
because there's some fatal disease that inhabits my head,
it spreads all its venom within the skin that i shed.
it keeps itself fed from the smoke that i breathe,
it plays with the joy of the hopefully naive.
i'm destine for disappointments and chalk outlines
because if i succumb to it, i'll die a thousand times.

i'm always picking at scabs and wounds i have made.
i'm always running from people and places i should've stayed.
my closet's full of skeletons, now i hide them in the walls.
i'm always bitter; seething. plunging knives right into dolls.
i've spent so many nights seeking light when there is none.
i've found a home in spite, it won't let me come undone.
i guess i expected more for the things i am owed.
i push away my friends so they are safe when i explode.

training wheels.

boo hoo.

i try to purge memories but end up with migraines,
my stomach appears to be much less strong than my brain
so i'd swallow my pride but i'll vomit it back up
because i've always been the kind that bites off too much.
i can no longer guide through your self-sabotaging ways
nor can i clear the gravel that caused your skin to graze.
i'm sure that in time your skinned knees will heal,
though i hope i was a good set of training wheels.

so ill-prepared with blunt knives that can't sever,
you think you're so smart but you're not even clever
and as the coke and those long nights chip away at your soul,
i'll scratch at my arms to form trenches and foxholes.
there'll come a time you can no longer outrun the guilt
and you'll need to return to the home that you've built.
whether i'll see you back there or i meet you halfway
maybe you can teach me a few tricks about running away.

patron saint of all clipped wings.

verse/chorus/verse structure sucks. i'm bad at writing choruses/hooks. 

i wish i were as strong as i think i'm sincere
though i think it's much easier if i just disappear.
i'll return to the deep hole from where i emerged
and hide from the things i don't think i deserve.
i'll take all my affection and beat in out straight
into some form or shape to help unburden the weight.
as i'm consumed by the silence, i'll accept my defeat
but i can hear your ghosts still dragging their feet.

i have become the patron saint of all clipped wings,
still haunted by artifacts of songs that you sing.
your ghosts know every section of this fragile, old mind,
they sneak in uninvited as they're trying to find
all the reasons you construe truth into lies,
infest this hallow husk til the host body dies.
i'm lost in memories that are only fragmentary
but i think i've accepted that this is all temporary.

you thought i was dead, oh, how i wish it were true
but instead i always find ways to crawl right back to you.
i'm kicking up dust and stepping on cracks,
followed so aimlessly to help hide my tracks.
stomp out this virus before it can spread
and strip faulty images from my broken head.
i'm running on fumes, doing much worse than you know
and i've not felt at home since so long ago.

i have become the patron saint of all clipped wings,
still haunted by artifacts of songs that you sing.
your ghosts know every section of this fragile, old mind,
they sneak in uninvited as they're trying to find
all the reasons you construe truth into lies,
infest this hallow husk til the host body dies.
i'm lost in memories that are only fragmentary
but i think i've accepted that this is all temporary.

i think i've lost track of where to begin
because i'm still trapped within each and every web that you spin.
still strung along hard by the words that you spoke
but i don't find this funny so i guess i'm the joke.
i've got no self-control, i fuck my best friends,
i'm so sick and tired of knowing how everything ends.
grab all your of needles, spools and your threads,
and sew back together this hole in my head.

i am the patron saint of all clipped wings,
forever haunted by how i ruin everything
your ghosts are so sick of this fragile, old mind,
still searching for something that they'll never find
there's no reason you construed the truth into lies,
you infested like cancer and now the whole body dies.
i'm still lost in dreams so fucking fragmentary
i've still yet to accept that this is temporary.

death consume these heavy bones.

last two things i wrote were shit so i deleted and then combined/changed them.

spend many nights trying to decide the knives and tools to lobotomize,
the cancerous growth inside the skull, drain blood from throat to oxidize.
cut off the hands for use in your alchemy built on foundation of logical fallacy
use alkahest to cauterize the veins and mercury to slowly dissolve the brain.
try to find the wires all in disarray and cut them out to rearrange,
strip the corrosion away from disdain while the wheels and pistons disengage.
renew the switches inside the chest to respond to every button you press
and find a way to save progress towards the countless issues addressed.

spend many hours faulting the design; point out failures and parts misaligned,
replace the gears that crush and grind, remove the inaccuracies you've identified.
pour your acids into hollow cavities, craft gold through the pressurized apathy,
potions, concoctions and spells of arcane to transmute that which you'll never obtain.
spend too much time preoccupied with viruses and the firewalls that fortify,
rewriting code hoping to simplify but circuits short out, rust calcifies.
meanings detach, the colours all fade - everything turned to a scheduled grey.
lie in bed with the seeds that have sown and let death consume these heavy bones.

 my life is a fucking joke :)

pissing contest (prod. alchemist) / divine intervention x obie trice

i wrote this years about and never released it  but i'm putting this up so i can show people while i'm out and we can laugh at the dude i wrote it about. #kuntrykidforever.

put up your punchlines, we're gonna spar over this beat
with gloves filled with barb-wire metaphors and personified concrete
it's definitely a blow-out but i'm not pulling punches for shit
i'm only throwing haymakers and connecting with every single hit

you're definitely not an artist so step down off your fucking pedistal
you've progressed from total garbage to absolutely fucking terrible
you're morally reprehensible cause despite what you've you said
you just stopped copying hilltop to rip off kerser instead

man, i'm sick to fucking death of your 'kuntry kiid' shit
i've choked back cigarettes harsher than any bar you could ever spit
destroying you lyrically is well within my capabilities
but i really need to stop picking on kids with mental disabilities

i swear, ever since you reach the age of puberty
you've developed into the mascot for the special-needs hip-hop community
do you have absolutely anything aside from ad hominem attacks
or fifty fictitious statements you've gone and disguised as facts?

if you're gonna take credit for the entirety of my views
maybe you should have instead saved some of that fucking effort for you
instead of focusing your energy on recording shitty ad-libs
ice break only has 700 views because people fucking laugh at it

seriously, your inconsistencies only topped by your simplicity
is it done deliberately or through an utter lack of creativity?
you're literally the epitome of what's wrong with hip-hop today
so if practice makes perfect jay, you've got a long fucking way

much too obsessed with turning this into a pissing contest
to notice i put you down harder than the day your fucking father left
now i'm attacking your family, now i'm fanning the flames
your mother sleeping around doesn't constitute multiple family names

oh no jay, have i go a little too far once again?
poking holes through the facade you've used to mask your pain
it must be really hard to always 'push against the grain'
to keep track of the 'hardships' that you've constantly fucking feigned

i'd say man the fuck up but that would require being an adult
so socially conscious using sexuality as an insult
there's a much higher chance of me ever gaining any sort of infamy
so you should go ahead and change your rap name to 'kid pygmy'

man, i'd call you micro but that's insulting biology
it doesn't take a group of scientists to figure out how doggedly
you betray each and every role you meet in this tragic comedy
and how you never cease to be the poster-child for utter mediocrity

or how your greatest commodity is your unwavering hypocrisy
your novelty's outweighed by your egocentric ideologies
an arrogant catastrophe, the exact opposite of gallantry
it's like i'm big brother prussia and bitch, you're little brother saxony

i don't need to do research to call out a mediocre idiot
probably pretend to write raps to hide the fact that you're illiterate
this is honestly akin to throwing lambs into a lion enclosure
the only things you ever destroyed were the beats you rapped over

stop making videos in various states of undress
because your whole body is as poorly designed as your girlfriends chest
and twice as bad as the shit you're printing on t-shirts
please stop dragging the term 'graphic design' through the fucking dirt

your internet persona is just a bad-tempered fourteen year old
took a little to literally caulfield's version of 'stay gold'
actually, that's probably why you're touting 'kuntry kid'
so i should leave you alone now, probably like you uncle never did

i'm planning to adopt the muslim religion in spite of you
become a jihadist so my career blow up rather than break through
in fact, i'm so fundamentalist, i'm going to the spurs indefinitely
to find better ways to get every aus rapper pissed at me

i swear to god, you're not a native english speaker
cause you roll your r's so hard i swear you're having a fucking seizure
i'm sorry, i can't help - i'm honestly not trying to target you
but if i recorded everything i wrote down, i'd write diss tracks about myself too