Tekster: Swingin' Utters. My Glass House.

While I sit alone in this room I've got crates full of sorrow
Even more filled with shadows That i fish out and ridicule when i'm felling lonely.

I'm lacking sense, but bound in a very specific direction It's phonomenal and unprecedented It's a chip of the old block and a step up the new ladder.

Mr. Scribe, I write to you pen and penchant aimed to pour over a fool left with no more rhymes I'm poeticlly franchised.

I'm in charge for the day in terminal wanderlust I've excited my worst thoughts exorcised what was lost am i a bad seed sprouting up or am i not?


I'm sure what sad is But listless i'm not my lists are never ending and my emotions aren't store-bought and tears, they either decieve or endure me I'm your little golden nugget collecting dust Bored with my own stale and directed thoughts In a place where so much life and loves abound It's amazing how little tempts me from my glass house.