Tubercle
Paint the walls of my homely head with faces of people that never existed unless I say so.
I can't remember your name, by choice or circumstance; I know I'm better off without it though.
Myself, I've changed my name and rewritten my face about as many times as days I've lived.
Live or die makes little difference really, choose the former and it's just little bites to the latter.
Pose and posture, emote prefabricated echos and you're just a corpse with an answering machine for a head.
My pretty pretty pretty little birdy never said bye bye running barefoot in the park, stinking of that soul crushing stench of nostalgia. It's hardwired behavior, prerecorded responses and I could play chess in my head to find out the answer, rather than expound the energy to open my mouth to get the responses I knew I would hear.
Do it because we just need to hear, just need to feel; that's what they say anyway, that the masochist just needs it to make it real, to feel real, because we know we're really just shadows at this point.
There's an empty hole in creation and that's where the father sits, sucking in all the light and leaving it's children in the cold, to starve, to kill and feed.
We grow fat on the milk of mother, the blood of our brother and we are strong for it. We rise and stand up in the cage made of the bones of our forefathers.
Mother, what tree is this, and am I to be it's bitter fruit twisting in the wind.
Slit my mouth open to devour ever more, and blessed be I, blessed and ever so holy; gouge out the eyes like the messiah prescribed and you never have to witness anything but the truth.
We are the scarecrows, hollow and stuffed; we dress ourselves in words and rhetoric; the higher the bullshit the grander the regalia.
Born unto my own sickness, my psychosis is the placenta that nurtures me; my mother and father are imaginary doctors and pretend priests, and I grow fat on dogma and pills.
I can't remember your name, by choice or circumstance; I know I'm better off without it though.
Myself, I've changed my name and rewritten my face about as many times as days I've lived.
Live or die makes little difference really, choose the former and it's just little bites to the latter.
Pose and posture, emote prefabricated echos and you're just a corpse with an answering machine for a head.
My pretty pretty pretty little birdy never said bye bye running barefoot in the park, stinking of that soul crushing stench of nostalgia. It's hardwired behavior, prerecorded responses and I could play chess in my head to find out the answer, rather than expound the energy to open my mouth to get the responses I knew I would hear.
Do it because we just need to hear, just need to feel; that's what they say anyway, that the masochist just needs it to make it real, to feel real, because we know we're really just shadows at this point.
There's an empty hole in creation and that's where the father sits, sucking in all the light and leaving it's children in the cold, to starve, to kill and feed.
We grow fat on the milk of mother, the blood of our brother and we are strong for it. We rise and stand up in the cage made of the bones of our forefathers.
Mother, what tree is this, and am I to be it's bitter fruit twisting in the wind.
Slit my mouth open to devour ever more, and blessed be I, blessed and ever so holy; gouge out the eyes like the messiah prescribed and you never have to witness anything but the truth.
We are the scarecrows, hollow and stuffed; we dress ourselves in words and rhetoric; the higher the bullshit the grander the regalia.
Born unto my own sickness, my psychosis is the placenta that nurtures me; my mother and father are imaginary doctors and pretend priests, and I grow fat on dogma and pills.