What is it, with the loss of direction in this flock of pedestrians. They coddle themselves in a blanket of sound waves and cell towers waiting to beam their stupidity to the masses. Yet, a single flower waiting to bloom never gets watered. The line formed from everyday stencils and clay face graphing, is an intellectual hole vanquished in fluidity by a ravenous duplicity, and at a moments notice it falls like rain drops upon glass. So true is it, that as one stays the other goes, and the empty space left becomes particles in an infinite web of zeros and souls. Empty as they may be, it isn’t the choice of a madman but, rather, the insolence of madmen too childish to remain engrossed in their own sufferance, that the entire static alignment bares a heavy weight. Thus, crushing the poor ignorant bastards that have been left behind.
What is it, with these battered beings and their self-inflicted wounds. Those who peddle wares upon stars made beyond plastic moons, and pour depravity upon salted vines of red. It is no doubt the better of the two, to have flesh rather than paper, picture or screen, you know, things. The housing is faulty though, and it only takes but a flicker of movement to ignite an empowered movement, giving rise to validation and lament. So it is, a lengthy road one must wander, if ever one is to find truth beyond oneself. Cold as it may be, it is that hunger and want that feeds all other false pretense, and the shallow will inherit all they have come to expect. Thus, separating the platitudes from desperate fools and giving rise to an ever-increasing forest of bitterness.
Wind me up and watch me fly out of control to my demise.
I’m naked, I’m hollow
I want you to,
I’ll do it all for you before I have but a second left for me.
I see you smile, I’ll dance for you, I want you to,
I hear you cry “I need you” but pretend that I’m asleep because, you’ve drained me.
As I lie beaten, tired and weary,
Self destruction is all-consuming,
Yet there is some sick comfort in the midst of it all and I’ve grown to love you,
It’s such a horrible loyalty that she has to her vice. Such lovely destructionshe carves through the skin. It’s in her nature now, she doesn’t even think twice. Her or it? The question lingers. It… always wins.
She no longer feels its calming sting. There’s no longer that pleasingpain. She hears the angels as they sing. Little rivers flow into her hands. It has captured her, hollow shells remain.
It’s disgustinglybeautiful you see, no one sees the new prints ofemotion. She’s becomeaddicted and would hate being freed. Such a shame to watch her waste. It’s just her deadly devotion.