By Mike Binder
Most times, I beckon for metal…black death, it just seems to settle the emptiness in me. I know I’m not that deep, but sometimes it soothes the subterrianial discomfort in me. Like I said: I ain’t. I am my own worst enemy. Seriously, I’ve become a mental amputee. Miserably, the limbic system I’ve tried so hard to cultivate has created its own destruction. You pressed that button, and I expect that you’ll accept its reprecussions.
There’s no need for a chorus, that submission would only bore us. Your soul is too pourous, please let me fill the cracks, it’s all for us.
Is in the hyprocrisy.
The gears stopped turning, but I believe we can rise again. The Phoenix has its own regrets…even as she burns, we’ve let us…(get us) past the implantation of this hypothetical fetus. It’s a shame that what now grows between us has been suffocated by the tourniquet that we let choke us dead. Now spread your ears and let me fuck your mind, just open wide. You’ve paid the price to let me confide.
There’s no need for a chorus, that submission would only bore us. Your soul is too pourous, please let me fill your cracks, it’s all for us.
Is in the hypocrisy.
Ghost limbs and phantom prostethics, bearing the spirits of what used to be. I know what was there, I know what’s there; but I can’t… I refuse to bare; I beg to pull your hair. It’s not fair. I paid the fare to enter your secret lair, and it makes me sick that you’re so laisse faire, it’s just not fair. It makes me sick that you’d think that I’d pick this. A random roulette assassinating a million white picket fences, I’m just your menace…ill pay my pennence, just get on your knees first.