The horse you rode in on has a taste for man.
The Knight and his Mares will devour all that they can.
Where's your shining armor?
Sign your arm with the ink of your soul. Give me, Give Me, Give Me.
He nods and smiles and leaves my hands shaking, and let's our business clock itself out.
Doctor's got a stray syringe, and lives on the shores of the Black Sea.
The hour glass has been flipped.
So we begin.
I pick these flowers with my bare hands,
My scars are my love letters.
Autographed with X's and O's.
She can cover her ears, and hope to disappear; but I think she know's.
She's got the lips that don't tell lies,
And the gaze full of bedroom eyes.
Paper stains well,
If my tears are ink.
I just can't tell,
It's harder to think.
I'm living in a place, you'd call hell.
I call it a Tropical Paradise,
Fall into a Tropical Depression.
I guess I'll have to pay the price, And swallow the dice.
This pain is only as deep as your scars.
Lines are blurred.
Rooms are filled with the colors of TV.
Sound walks backwards.
Careful with each step.
Drown your drugs with your sorrows.
Never have I ever.
The sky moves with the clouds.
The stars don't follow.
Doing well at losing,
Not well at finding.
Not well at all.
Days are brighter when you live in the dark.
Quit talk of the future,
Can't learn from the past.
Don't let the days get fewer,
Try and make them last.
Death Waltzing through the Rodents at our feet.
Rats cover the holes we've buried.
If you're still searching, you'll have to dig deep.
Some of our parts make a whole, but the hole's don't fill themselves.
We've dug too far,
we've reached the tsar.
Call the exterminator on ourselves.
This empty dancefloor has filled this Ballroom,
And the band plays on.
The closest you have to a mirror is the television, and it only shows how you want to look.
Together, we're less than the sum of our parts.
My wounds are still weeping.
Hysteria is impossible without an audience.
Paranoia isn't fun without participants.
Fire against the smoke.
My secrets are buried in my bones.
Crack like a glowstick, illuminate my mind.
You're getting Mad,
While I'm getting Made.
Contemporary art is only temporary.
Expires with each passing minute.
Gift shop scars,
You'll want a souvenir.
Razors get difficult to hold when used correctly.
If the Audience are the art pieces, who are their audience?
Hopeless romantics, stuck in Semantics.
I know it must sound stupid,
Full of hope to get shot by the cupid.
The hope is a weakness, drowning my sickness.
But I'd feel much better without feeling loathed.
I'm uninspired. I don't aspire, I feel required to expire.
Tear out my larynx, screams of phonics.
Pound my ear drums with the words of my own notes.
I know it hurts, but, I think I like it.
Mountains of knuckles, covered in snow.
Being afraid would keep me out of trouble.
Exit now, for this is where the ride ends.
Ladies Under Gentlemen,
Face your fears and everything that gives you tears, then run away.
Life is not a choice, but it's full of choices.
Life is but a dream, and I know why. It's because I haven't woken up yet.
The Depraved are Deprived of Depravity.
Don't cry, save that for the weak ones.
I can fit through your seams like you've never been put together.
Sifting through the ashes of another life.
Finding only the sands of my own shattered hourglass.
The curtain falls.
The smokescreen fills itself.
The sun is blurred out from the sky,
Clouds full of acid rain.
The air has become warm,
Getting harder to breathe.
Breathe in, give it a try.
With each breathe comes a cough.
The curtain burns.
The show goes on.
Hold each other with the strength of your faith.
Faith is what drives us. Fate is what ends us.
A new sun has emerged.
Shield your eyes, for it gets too bright.
It's cold now.
A winter of falling ashes.
Raining mud, like running makeup.
Cover me in snow.
Hearts will be melted, then frozen together again.
But they will never keep their shape.
You will be held close.
Now it's Dark.
This Is A Psycho's Path. The path that leads to everywhere your mind is afraid of traveling. In the next few periods of time, this movement will become much larger of a problem to all who fear that path. The background sounds have invaded, and have filled the rooms with silence. The sounds of the ones who aren't there. Now, that room is filled with "Outstanding Suspects", and they have their name to carve into the worlds skin. Become, Grow, Destroy.
A Psycho's Path. This Is Not An Exit.