Eucharist
Ramming the face into the entrails, locking the brain up behind the ribcage. Salvation behind the sternum, cold numb thing that beats, insectile reaction, cause and infection.
Never a word unsaid in the puppet show in my head, ligate one's self tightly in sentimental candy floss, pull it's strings for myself; loco motives and the engineer is a kamikaze.
Divine wind blowing through a wasted breath, it's set for crash and one wonders because it feels like the only one without a helmet. Speshul olympians for a bold new horizon.
Furrow my brow, roll my eyes, hope to give a final exhausted breath, weary from the sight, weary from the show; the impassioned play cast with un passionate players.
I know your dead because I can smell your blood, one can smell the stink of the grave on you, your eyes are dead and when I look inside I see no one is home. A house filled with life and one by one the inhabitants went away, no one cared enough to save them from us, from each other.
Watched with glee as the crowd castrated themselves, wearied wonder, dead from the neck up, infantile obsession the waste below.
Spine was sold for a smile, fleeting thing for a soul to be sold, does the thought of eternity sting? One wonders if it's resting upside down because I see such unnatural sights and I think perhaps one is skewed and not the field,
I hope I'm only ill from all the blood in my head.
Who taught you how to pray and where did they say to pray, the neglected reason, the forgotten question is who exactly am I praying to?
I don't know where I exist, somewhere between now and forever but I know I'm not on my knees praying to an unknown faceless creature.
When one's fingers roll off it's face, it wishes it would go with them, just once to be able to look at myself for what I am.
Loathe as it is to feel myself, to believe in what one evolved into, from what one came from. Build a brighter future to hate myself even better for the bones used in it's creation. One will be guilty for everything, put the blame on my forehead, one will make sure it sticks; as dead things fall to the ground, one will sit high on the pyre. One will wear those dead faces, sustain itself on those dead phrases.
I'll tear a hole in myself for everything I have done, and even more for what I didn't, I'll push rewind and replay the pain.
Concrete golem, burning bodies like Moloch, putting dreams into my hands and watch them burn. Nothing was ever real, and the suffering was worthless, the only retribution is what I pour on my own head. So one is so so fucking sorry it wasn't swimming in tears, it's sorry it didn't feel it, I'm sorry that one didn't know the difference between the blade and itself, and I hate that you did.
Burning fast and going nowhere,leaving the ash for never. Chewing through the days in a desperate dreaming backwards, digging through shit and hugging smoke, mass production garbage fresh from the line of sight never considered the gutter until it's an afterthought.
Toss the obol and tell me what side happiness is on, the eyes are different colors; so the dish served on the menu is starkly different and words don't change the way it tastes.
One will bury itself in your hot ash, it will wear every fucking name on itself, though it will never be able to speak that tongue and the right one will never seem to find me. Pick the wound before it can even scab over, I'll burn, I'll seek out hell, maybe I've always been there and never had to look too far to find home. Out of the dust and back into the fire, out through the door and my back to the window, one won't break it's neck looking backward at the reflection it never was.
Never a word unsaid in the puppet show in my head, ligate one's self tightly in sentimental candy floss, pull it's strings for myself; loco motives and the engineer is a kamikaze.
Divine wind blowing through a wasted breath, it's set for crash and one wonders because it feels like the only one without a helmet. Speshul olympians for a bold new horizon.
Furrow my brow, roll my eyes, hope to give a final exhausted breath, weary from the sight, weary from the show; the impassioned play cast with un passionate players.
I know your dead because I can smell your blood, one can smell the stink of the grave on you, your eyes are dead and when I look inside I see no one is home. A house filled with life and one by one the inhabitants went away, no one cared enough to save them from us, from each other.
Watched with glee as the crowd castrated themselves, wearied wonder, dead from the neck up, infantile obsession the waste below.
Spine was sold for a smile, fleeting thing for a soul to be sold, does the thought of eternity sting? One wonders if it's resting upside down because I see such unnatural sights and I think perhaps one is skewed and not the field,
I hope I'm only ill from all the blood in my head.
Who taught you how to pray and where did they say to pray, the neglected reason, the forgotten question is who exactly am I praying to?
I don't know where I exist, somewhere between now and forever but I know I'm not on my knees praying to an unknown faceless creature.
When one's fingers roll off it's face, it wishes it would go with them, just once to be able to look at myself for what I am.
Loathe as it is to feel myself, to believe in what one evolved into, from what one came from. Build a brighter future to hate myself even better for the bones used in it's creation. One will be guilty for everything, put the blame on my forehead, one will make sure it sticks; as dead things fall to the ground, one will sit high on the pyre. One will wear those dead faces, sustain itself on those dead phrases.
I'll tear a hole in myself for everything I have done, and even more for what I didn't, I'll push rewind and replay the pain.
Concrete golem, burning bodies like Moloch, putting dreams into my hands and watch them burn. Nothing was ever real, and the suffering was worthless, the only retribution is what I pour on my own head. So one is so so fucking sorry it wasn't swimming in tears, it's sorry it didn't feel it, I'm sorry that one didn't know the difference between the blade and itself, and I hate that you did.
Burning fast and going nowhere,leaving the ash for never. Chewing through the days in a desperate dreaming backwards, digging through shit and hugging smoke, mass production garbage fresh from the line of sight never considered the gutter until it's an afterthought.
Toss the obol and tell me what side happiness is on, the eyes are different colors; so the dish served on the menu is starkly different and words don't change the way it tastes.
One will bury itself in your hot ash, it will wear every fucking name on itself, though it will never be able to speak that tongue and the right one will never seem to find me. Pick the wound before it can even scab over, I'll burn, I'll seek out hell, maybe I've always been there and never had to look too far to find home. Out of the dust and back into the fire, out through the door and my back to the window, one won't break it's neck looking backward at the reflection it never was.