Self-destruction is a ******* *****.
It lures you with its charm and you'll lose your head for more.

It's *****.
It stinks of ash and burning rubber, nothing sweet.
Beauty here is found down pissy alleys and back streets.

We're stupid,
But we like to think we're smarter than the rest.
The influx of foreign substance puts the system to the test.

Self-destruction is just another *****,
Feeding off my soul.
Selling herself to young men and women
Searching for a hole.

My whole life is a head rush.
Have ten minutes to get ready after getting out of bed... ****.

Eloquent through all my bad luck.
To overcome the oppression all you have to do is speak up.

In a cheap rut.
The solemn selfish sliver of life in me wants a heaven filled with this stuff.

I feel stuck.
But I know that ropes and razors move life forward if I ever need to give up.

And now I feel I've seen it all,
But the familiarity proves me a fool.
I could've have been anything I wanted to be at all,
I just wasn't given the tools.

But now I'm taking it back and I'll give a good tussle,
Honing the power of my bare hands.
Never again shall I fear another man, I've gained strength that is much more than muscle.

While the pure white of the clouds will wander and return,
The blue sky won't stop wailing for a second.
Only it knows about life after death and it seems to be nothing like heaven.

I've never been so sick as when I do not understand.
Evidence is of no value to you.
I don't care much for my thoughts so I'll bury them in sand,
And they'll be part of the raging sea,
So blue.

And if we were to separate,
It'd be like splintering wood,
With my hate sprouting flowers as in Spring.

And while the bee may seem so lovely as a part of nature's plan,
It also tends to pack a nasty sting.

Was it me that broke silences attributed to strength?
Volatile maybe, anything but weak.
Longing to break what is already bent,
My nerve quivers,
Never my lip.

It's not an issue of ordinary old head-bashed-off-the-dash hookery.
It's something more.
Not like the something before.
It can be answered lysergically,
I swear it,
I've seen it and I've been one with two and every other number so I swear I must've been it.

It was so cold, the learning.
Colder than the yearning.
Knowing nothing's what it seems yet it is everything at once.


And I cannot be contradicted because my evidence is infinite.
If you'd just take the time to sit and spit silence for a split second, you'd know.
Part of listening is thinking of a response.

And you might not stand on corners like the forlorn father mourners but you too are just a ***** for lonely men.

You are a *******.
Disillusioned with reality for lack of significance yet compulsively obsessed with the vapid, the vain and the relentlessly vicious.

Yes, I am a *******.
Hiding from the very idea of perspective,
I aimlessly am.
Abacination betters hallucination.
The sore truth aches fantasy,
Not exile.