Philth
Say pomp and circumstance, read the rites and rituals; pray to the almighty to extend it's five fingers to cover the earth in nothing but grace and compassion.
Monkey pig fuck, but in the sun's light we're all upstanding human beings, never one to admit the muck, much less really revel in it.
No standard, no line drawn, no barrier separating man from just another rabbit, call it honor, let's call it a coma.
Dead head and vibrant flesh living for today and hope tomorrow brings the flames of baptism and redemption.
Tomorrow is nothing more than the culmination of the fear of yesterday ignored and shunned.
Wrapped up in the security of scumbag armor; indignant to the ebb and flow; fearing what is reaped will be sown.
The joy is a lie, the happiness no much more than going through the motions and belching out salutations and praise of nothing in particular.
It's a production line of emptiness, and the end result is cliché, and so fucking obvious.
Need to rise up and be all one can be and become a better monster, see and it still run away from the inevitable.
Call it better living through chemistry, I call it keeping Cujo in the kennel. It's my own feeble attempt to regress, trim my fat.
Drained more bodies of blood and painted myself in my own, bathed the dead in chemicals and become saturated in it myself.
It's becoming so hard to differentiate myself from them and I envy them at times, could spend everyday fantasizing being among their ranks, because the honest truth is that one should fear life far more than death.
They can call you a coward, they can call you a monster, or scum or animal; the words betray fear, and sometimes that's the only thing that can keep you strong, the only thing that one needs to justify itself.
We are the image we reflect, our words and ideas are our breath; some rise shallow like the moribund and others don't even need to waste their breath.
Monkey pig fuck, but in the sun's light we're all upstanding human beings, never one to admit the muck, much less really revel in it.
No standard, no line drawn, no barrier separating man from just another rabbit, call it honor, let's call it a coma.
Dead head and vibrant flesh living for today and hope tomorrow brings the flames of baptism and redemption.
Tomorrow is nothing more than the culmination of the fear of yesterday ignored and shunned.
Wrapped up in the security of scumbag armor; indignant to the ebb and flow; fearing what is reaped will be sown.
The joy is a lie, the happiness no much more than going through the motions and belching out salutations and praise of nothing in particular.
It's a production line of emptiness, and the end result is cliché, and so fucking obvious.
Need to rise up and be all one can be and become a better monster, see and it still run away from the inevitable.
Call it better living through chemistry, I call it keeping Cujo in the kennel. It's my own feeble attempt to regress, trim my fat.
Drained more bodies of blood and painted myself in my own, bathed the dead in chemicals and become saturated in it myself.
It's becoming so hard to differentiate myself from them and I envy them at times, could spend everyday fantasizing being among their ranks, because the honest truth is that one should fear life far more than death.
They can call you a coward, they can call you a monster, or scum or animal; the words betray fear, and sometimes that's the only thing that can keep you strong, the only thing that one needs to justify itself.
We are the image we reflect, our words and ideas are our breath; some rise shallow like the moribund and others don't even need to waste their breath.