Rhyming, which I hate

Now every night I paint my face like
War Pigs gathered at the slaughter
so I can anti-Big Bad Wolf myself and
ease up out your daughter.
There’s a set of expectations I haven’t
learned to live with yet
that fixes on figuring to view
the future as a threat.
I couldn’t sit, passive, never letting one
get between my eyes, I
keep my head a hazy wavy soup of
cigarettes and thighs.
It’s a milky, chunky junky-fix
to shoot me up all day
and if reality ever reconnects I’ll
look the other way
because it just wouldn’t be decent now to
raise atcha’ masses
but when I rock half-cocked it ain’t no shock
to see I’m sniping classless.
I stand
I stand so hard I forget how to sit
and maybe if nobody’s looking I can
stretch a little bit, but a
chemical imbalance ain’t
no cause for alarm and
I swear to God no matter who I
hurt I meant no harm.
There’s no knot that I could tighten up
to look of legal age
and I know I’ll never get nowhere but
the end of a page
so lie down.