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The fourth and final chapter of conceptual E.P., 'Sonnets of Solipsism' in which escape appears granted...


What's the root of the problem to my tree of life?
The underlying issues that stand deep inside.
Could it be all too easy to blame the underhanded?
How half the world speaks without understanding.
I was born to this world, genetically programmed.
Environmental triggers positioned; maximum impact.
It's all the little things you drag up in times of crisis,
All the one word slips and past vices.
Is it just me who has a flashback to the present?
And how illusion and reality stay on the same level?
Whether it's a dream or not stays irrelevant.
It has the same effect as another closet skeleton.

Just one more to add to my collection,
of deep, lost thoughts prepared for resurrection.
You can add a clock to that list of broken objects.
Or you might as well, it's distinct lack of logic.
Time runs freely and drips as it sees fit,
like a broken tap, add that as well please.
It's about as much use as making sense of chaos.
So many dead thoughts all gather round and have a séance.
And join hands up with my split personality.
Me, myself and my lack of rationality.

The back walls, just one patch of missing plaster,
a small part still intact, but that was about the last of it.
The rest fell away when I was counting the minutes.
I had to save space with deeper cuts to begin with.
With indents representing hours and days,
with my ragged nails, the last patch I pulled away.
And it came away with a lot more force than the others.
This time it wasn't bricks but a hole that i'd discovered.
The room had decided it was time it was uncovered,
as I reached in and felt a cold metallic object.
I turned it in my hand and felt the grooves and notches.
It held far more weight in my grasp than i'd imagined.
It's intention to grant my escape became apparant.
A key of tarnished brass as it finally happened.

Flash forward six minutes, the door open.
Light infinite sinking through the carpeted floor.
Carnival music making me sick to my stomach,
I hold a cup held once before, and sip from it.
Lips to the porcelain, heart beating morse code.
More so than a dot to dot dash coffee gives me a sore throat.
We meet again, not the first nor last time;
around the thrice if i'm being precise.
I've not been quite up to speed these last nights,
with no concrete way to be able to perceive passing time.
As allowed by my vague mind and suddenly,
I'm dropped backed down the chute of reality, in Half-Time,
and what happens?


from Sonnets of Solipsism (Blank Room I), released April 19, 2012
All lyrics written and performed by B.Brandall.
Music composed, performed and produced by L.Tyrrell.



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Rough Drafts London, UK

Rough Drafts is a young spoken word artist constantly exploring the intricacies of solipsism, existentialism with a healthy onus on super-villains and Rube-Goldbergesque sentence structure.

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