The Cost Of Candlelight

It’s the gum stuck to the bottom of your foot
Winter fresh and spearmint suffering
A sickening texture that you know you don’t want to touch
Or ever hear for that matter
If things could just get better around Roswell road
Then the gum wouldn’t stick
But it f***ing does

It’s a street pimp’s duality we all endure
Or machine gun turrets armed with
Trigger happy fingers
Why does this continuous headlock of stress exist?
An exhausting serpentine question mark

This shoe can’t fight the struggle anymore
Finish this worthless sidewalk tug-of-war
And the weight will drop from
My Atlas shoulders
But the issue remains through sleeping sound and screaming prayer
With no sight of karma rescue
Or smiling headstone
Because rancid gum sticks to every surface