Mean streaky bacon.

I feel my effort goes in to just existing.
Twisting my throat tight so the pain stays mine.
Time wasted isn't wasted its making me feel better.
Sit there doing nothing, with nothing is where nothing belongs. If I do nothing all day I get nothing wrong.
At the end of the day I always feel defeated.
They threw the book at me but i didn't read it.
Cheated out of my winnings I feel bitter.
Trillion to one chance, but I don't feel a winner.
In a dimention if my own devising, come to mention I'm always revising, even to me it's sometimes surprising. How do I keep sinking futher? Do I need analysing?
Comprising of two parts shit to sugar. My life is a carousel of bad moods, tempers temper the mouth-feel of the amouse bouche.
Lazy Susan glances Lance me with glancing blow.

Torn tissue, the issue is the fact I'm gonna blow.
No witness could insist on this persistent instance of insanity.

If I manage to damage I'll feel victory in my savagery.

Managing to remove my mean streak may need surgery and what's left could well be too sugary.
There are certain aspects of existence that are not mine.

It comes from so many missed calls on my lifeline.

In time I'll try to make myself a dime, but until then, please give me a smaller fine.