As the chisel strikes the marble, so the psyche shapes the man.
Perfect in his alabaster, carving self from his own hands.
And once honed, his craft can grow by drafting bodies made of stone
Sourced from quarries free of worry, something he can call his own.

If he wishes to ascend beyond his animal desires,
He must grow a patience cold enough to ***** the raging fires
Burning hot against his skin and so within his weary soul,
For his enemy resides in him, and stokes the glowing coals.

Strings hung gently on the air
Sell a sweaty yellow theme
Pulled like strands of flowing hair
Slither through my cold blood stream
Rocks catch in my throat again
Lips taste tears, and brain cells throb
Punished knuckles glow with sin
Hurting is their only job
Kiss a neverending fall
From the bottom to the top
Slit my throat the whole way down
Pray that I survive the drop
Eating teeth to cage my tongue
Cures the symptoms, not the sick
Til my final song is sung
Keeping quiet does the trick

And should my grim perceptions falter,
Melancholies stand unaltered.

Just another machination
of my poor imagination
I try to hold, it all comes loose
Beneath the sun, beneath the aging noose.
Obligated by design
I wave my hand, you turn back time
Taking orders 'til I'm dead
It doesn't matter, you're just in my head.
Give in to pyromania
To satisfy my cranium
And when I do get burnt, the scars
mark every lesson learnt, at least thus far.
I wish that I could satisfy
the image that I know that I
could realize if I could just
do this or that or these, but it's all bust.
I'm sick and tired of being told
what people think I think. It's old.
I listen to your words again,
smile, nod my head, and just pretend.

I once scrungled a tungus, dubbed Binglo Bungus,
Whose cungles were trungly, and cuds cumpily cunk.
But his drungles did fungle, so sadly he bungled,
And without hesitation, he glunked.

Four fingles he fangled, when, biggaly bangled,
Approached not a crowd, but an army of glimps.
And they clinkled his binkle, as he chinkily changled,
But The Bungus stopped not for the bimps.

He dringled those hob-glimps! Their ****** was drompled!
Their pebuses, feeble, buckled under the frung.
And he chungled their drungles, with fury he plungled.
To this day, not a glimp stands to cung.

But his fangling, untrungled, was far from the fringus,
And he fangled on forward another five flinks.
On the fifth flink, he bebussed, as his fangle was pepis,
So he humpled the drumpling ****.

Sir Bungus fangled homeward, his blumpus was tungled.
His drungles rejonked, for the fungling was done.
They erected a frangus to plingus The Bungus,
And the drumpling **** that he'd won.

What do I have to tell you
To burn a hole straight through your chest?
What would you have me sell you?
I just make enough to fill in the rest.
Send a particle through you
That whispers to your aching spine,
"I can already smell you,
two seconds from now and you'll be mine."
I just wanted to hold you.
But a grip too tight tends ribs to crack.
This I already told you.
Like a dog, though, you kept coming back.

Ashes in the snow, just
gunpowder in the dust
I try to tell a story
but I'm drowning in your lust.
Keep it in a locket, now
your memories won't bow
to dementiatic tendencies
and let you break your vow.

And while I'm not the reaper of
broken promises, I love
looking at you through a
scope from half a mile away.

Brutal repetition drives the nail into the skull.
Waves unending lap the rusted metal from the hull.
Spirit bends as bodies break, and all their oaths defied.
Sailing as a corpse, sinful temptations at your side.

Breathing in the brine to set your bleeding lungs aflame.
Soaking in the salt, repent, for you're the one to blame.
Exodus of virtue, lest we take all that remains.
Helter-skelter shelters offer reprieve from the pain.

Offer her your hand, with luck a knuckle will suffice.
Slice! Did that feel nice? Let's get that finger on some ice!
Live amongst the rats and let your sanity unfold.
Dig your grave, and maybe on the way you'll strike fool's gold.

In times of great inspiration,
emotions flutter forth, escaping sensation
toward the ceaseless void.
Fragmented million-fold, but not destroyed.
Net in hand, I stand on the tips of my toes,
careful not to lose my balance,
and throw.

If I'm lucky, I feel a pull,
that lurches like a raging bull!
The fight is on! My newfound steed
pulls 'til my palms begin to bleed.
I hold fast, and though my feet begin
to leave the earth, I keep my grip.
And I'm flying.

But most often, Lady Luck is not with me.
A swing and a miss, and with a mighty blow,
my pride falls like a rotten tree,
and plunges into the terror that lurks below.
I sink in. I decompose. I sprout anew.
And though weak, my green arms reach,
instinctively, for the net.