Appetite
You will find no mercy here.
Pared away by vigilance, by the desire to make an example of.
You will find nothing but malice,
Permitted to grow by a weary mind,
because of self preservation.
Nor shall there be pity of any kind.
Animosity is a foundation here.
Paranoia molds as mortar
and an aptitude for drama which, makes a fine gabled roof.
What precisely am I made of?
What has become of me?
I have yet more questions than I ever will answers.
i still grow more gruesome with each sunrise.
Foul; Disagreeable by moonlight.
You will find no relief here.
Misery makes an impertinent friend,
Especially if you try to fall asleep beside it
in your soul.
Waking you in the night, to whisper in your ear
that four o'clock is not so far away.
Apathy makes a disconcerting ally,
Considerably so if you invite it in to stay.
Laughing at you in the face of defeat,
Reminding you how far behind you really are.
I only speak in soliloquy,
and live in vignettes.
Walk right through the moments of my life.
the sad arms of my clock swing round so fast,
There is nothing they can grasp.
Meanwhile, I emulate their pathetic ways.
They call it blatant Bolshevik tendencies.
Indeed, I am a Proletariat that weeps as a bourgeoisie would.
Irreverence is a talent.
Noxious as it is, perverse as it may seem.
it is all in the validity of its existence.
How does it grow like mold?
Flake spores as if fungus!
It is quite a quixotic way of life.
A scourge to those whom are granted a whiff of its potent perfume.
Permeating through the sternest of men, disarming for those optimistic.
Irreverence is a gift.
When all you want is a fucking chair to sit in and a cigarette to smoke,
it could very well be the only charm I have.
Pared away by vigilance, by the desire to make an example of.
You will find nothing but malice,
Permitted to grow by a weary mind,
because of self preservation.
Nor shall there be pity of any kind.
Animosity is a foundation here.
Paranoia molds as mortar
and an aptitude for drama which, makes a fine gabled roof.
What precisely am I made of?
What has become of me?
I have yet more questions than I ever will answers.
i still grow more gruesome with each sunrise.
Foul; Disagreeable by moonlight.
You will find no relief here.
Misery makes an impertinent friend,
Especially if you try to fall asleep beside it
in your soul.
Waking you in the night, to whisper in your ear
that four o'clock is not so far away.
Apathy makes a disconcerting ally,
Considerably so if you invite it in to stay.
Laughing at you in the face of defeat,
Reminding you how far behind you really are.
I only speak in soliloquy,
and live in vignettes.
Walk right through the moments of my life.
the sad arms of my clock swing round so fast,
There is nothing they can grasp.
Meanwhile, I emulate their pathetic ways.
They call it blatant Bolshevik tendencies.
Indeed, I am a Proletariat that weeps as a bourgeoisie would.
Irreverence is a talent.
Noxious as it is, perverse as it may seem.
it is all in the validity of its existence.
How does it grow like mold?
Flake spores as if fungus!
It is quite a quixotic way of life.
A scourge to those whom are granted a whiff of its potent perfume.
Permeating through the sternest of men, disarming for those optimistic.
Irreverence is a gift.
When all you want is a fucking chair to sit in and a cigarette to smoke,
it could very well be the only charm I have.