Marco DiLeonardo Art

You can't sit still.
On the phone, flirting, throwing shit.
Fingers tapping, radio playing, in a fucking trace.
The same Beyoitche song, over and over.
Attention, attention.
Can we have your attention?
You can't get here on time.
Complaining how you never feel good.
Moaning, Wheezing, oh my fucking god.
The same woe is me excuses, over and over.
Attention, attention.
Do we have your attention?
You can't do any work.
Making fart noises and tap, tap, tapping.
You fucking child.
The same Disgraceney movie, over and over.
Attention, attention.
Do we want your attention?

56:1

It's a three way tie.
A cluster-fucking cult jam.
It's that spirit of seventy six
bringing us satisfaction.
How does this happen?
Another name would be a shame.
It'll continue until I get it right.
Until I finally decide to decide.
Monkey in the middle.
Why does this happen?
It's a means of protection.
To keep me warm and hidden.
My guardian angels in armor.
Caring creatures of a kind.
What are the odds?

These hands are bound.
To be rewarded to the kindest bidder.
Your reaction over ownership proved false.
Thus my cover was fully blown.
Fighting to save our friendship,
only to end a dreaded union.
Inches away from being finished in this tangled confusion.
This is best for what was made and what had stayed.
If anger is your way then you've learned nothing.
Shutting me up, out and down reveals my filthy conscious.
The hypocrite I am.