These scars of vengence against,
these bleeding wounds of misery,
give me all the comforts of being home again.
A reoccuring constant in digits of my history.
I need to talk,
to spill the cup,
to break the news to friends.
And though it seems that mouths are glued,
and mindless matters stir and stew.
I cannot let go of the impressions of a disapearing dream.
I'm tearing at the seam,
a helpless soul,
an empty bowl,
of used flakes you shatter.
What does it matter.....
But know the chaos that you breed,
know of pain and misery.
I would wish this on, but cannot live,
a spineless cowards leaking sive.
And so I talk to friends defined,
of only thought,
creative mind....
I'm lost and no one knows where to look to find myself again.
nobody cares the way my sheets smell of the dead.
