The world tells you to cool it.
The world tells you to can it,
and either you don't,
Drive yourself stir-crazy,
Always churning things up,
Always breaking things down,
Always thrashing around
Until you cut yourself
On your own sharp tongue
and bleed all five quarts
Out the end of your pen,
Or you learn your place,
Know your role,
and slow your roll.
Maybe I'll try that one,
Someday,
When I'm bored and bleeding.
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