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Friday, March 26, 2010

I Can't Believe Its Not BUTTA!!!!!

That's Smooth...But I'm Hard

If you're smooth like butta then I must be hard as rye bread...
You spread it on thick clogging every air pocket with your saturated sweet cream.
Having me think of days better than sliced bread.
Floating around in my brain when I could've sworn I was brain dead.


Dead to emotions and all feelings inside...
You leavened this whole lump and put some yeast to make me rise.
I refuse to be puddy or dough in one's hands.
Not looking to be molded or shaped into a symmetrical pan.


I wanna’ rise free, no bleach therapy.
Wheat and multi-grain fill up more paper than artificial claims
I know it may be gross but "I'm Just Saying"
What's the point of buttering me up and swallowing me whole?
When I've lost all hope in man, let alone be good for your soul.

There's mold on my edges and I'm beyond cracked and brittle.
Not ready to soften up, I'm afraid; more than just a little.
Softened up to be spewed out...
I'm sitting here reading your ingredients with much disbelief and doubt


It’s no Wonder I could be talking about bread,
But what's the big deal about needing the spread?
Having something to smooth out the rough parts
You know, take some of the burnt taste away...

Similar to a broken heart, it could help ease the pain.
To smooth out the rough patches, piece together the broken parts.
But if my heart were like bread I'd truly be the molding parts...
Tired of being stuck in this bag…needing to breathe this fresh air called life.
Just let me be, it’s ok if I'm free. I'll just be dry and good to me...

But if for only one night I could scream "I can't believe it’s not Butta"
I'd let you spray all just for your cumin pleasure...
So lay it thick in hopes of getting through; because who knows,
Maybe one day, I'll be smooth as butta too.


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