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On a Rampage
Anger strangles strangers away from a savior,
we either chase a savior or we chase paper.
As for I, it'd be best that I fly away from humanity, because, see society's gotten me losing sobriety.
The man in me is surely losing a grip on his sanity , this anxiety has me up all night, I lay here and fight for the right state of mind. And at this point in time, why should I even try?
Shawn Bowman's cozy coasting among these oceans of emotions, I'm floating.
Just hoping I'll go and choose the right roads, take the right paths to one day look back into the past and smile back at my grandchildren in motion.
Now, let me inform these nosy peeps that Shawn B just wants to rot in pieces, not rest in peace, because why would that make sense for me? I go through so much depression that I can sit here with no experience, but with the power of observation, still be able give you my two cents. In conclusion, pain is a nuisance. I ask myself why I still do this, like why I am still here? Why should I even care?
What makes me blue? What makes me lose my cool? What makes me do what I do? Nothing wrong is going on, I'm just losing my mind running back and forth from aisle two to aisle five screaming, "Fuck my life!"
You. You make me run and hide, emotionally buried alive, pointing my finger at others other than mine. It is me who should take responsibility.

I do things that'll help me lose my life, why?
Don't I want to survive, want to strive?
But there I am, standing, and here I am sitting, typing here feeling dead inside. why?
Shawn's still finding out why.
I cry, I sigh, I wake up to another day of a torturous lie.
I see no difference between life and death, because here I've been breathing, but still dead.
I'm on cruise control with these booze I gulp and this weed that I smoke, it's better than looping a noose, if I commit and kick the chair down, it'd be my life that I would lose, choke and gulp on my last breath of air. Personally I'm self medicating, but to others, I'm self deprecating. My pain is my obstacle course, not yours. So take a detour and mind yours.

The more I see, the less my chest seems to press for the oxygen I need to breathe. You see problems, I see Gotham. You hold onto too much of the wrong stuff, whereas I'm a cold one, I don't give a fuck. They want to pull my heart apart and rebuild me like I'm parts brought and thrown into a shopping cart. I'm not a robot sold in Walmart, in other words I can't be bought. Instead I should be shipped off in an anonymous cargo box and lost. Because at the end of the day, you don't have the strength to live with my demented brain. I'm the darkness in a tunnel that you don't have the torch bright enough to lighten up my wicked ways. These are the results of a scorched birth, growing up processing the worst. A day in my brain will lead your structure astray, to try and fix me is to leave your eyes seeing the same old demise that I can't seem to get by. I'm wise but I keep it disguised because why would anyone listen to this guy. It's like trusting a loose cannon in a tight operation, it's not going to happen. It's like trusting Satan. But then again, I'd rather trust him, I'd rather pour my faith into the vile hearts of the broken and the damned, because honestly it seems like they're the only ones who still give a damn. The fallen have more to fight for, to climb back up on their own two feet. If you read this and are unable to take the heat, if you are cringing from my weeps then you don't deserve to be in the same room as me.