By :: Kuro Tsubame

it was a little while ago
yet it's been an eternity for sure
my breath had run it's course
I always end up sitting with my back against the mental walls
my costume cunningly crafted from a curator who habitually falls
through the inevitable tragedy that remains a part of me
fantastically prancing from my drought ridden skull holes.
i may not be the hurt man
because as a man, i need to understand that the world will not weep with me
regardless of how much i plead with thee for sympathy
all the world shall grant me is misery and illusory stories where I'm the villain and deserve mistreatment simply because i befriend my demons.
the alternative is being broken and defeated, left ****** without reason, while my soul is stolen from freedom.
so i cannot be hurt.
i will not be hurt.
i cannot be the hurt man.
my pain has no choice but to understand.

And since my soul is so willing to sew rhythms in copious ocean-esc villainous feelings
I'll be wing ridden to save myself from being pillaged
, see my soul's risen into old wisdom given by members hidden in the pages of some wing ridden angels when my mind's with them.
It's that kind of season, where you can get lost in the dreaming and break free without reason from a precinct with demons that stay feeding on the lifeless breathing ingrates that try to keep up with living.
It's vivid, how their horns and tails fidget when you're about to cheat on the misses
And rob a church before Christmas
Got you acting up, chasing down a witness
The things our souls have to witness.
I wish the victimizer had a fit bit on his cruel wrist; so that i could blame **** on his focus
Other wise there's no sense
In hurting a woman who gave no offence
They willing to jump an electric fence and fence with their daggers and blades. Slice up her dress turn her into a slave.
Leaving trauma delayed relayed in her mind as fact that she cannot be saved.
I'm afraid.
Why make a choice that'll make more graves?
Why make a kid in a world that won't be the same
A world where the only change is a different type of blame.
With a different gun to aim
I'm just saying
It's a shame, for humans and their vains laced with historical pains and strains of purple hearts i mean haze and strife
Basically smoking a joint laced with a knife
Twice.
One for the groom and one for the bride.
Because the child they couldn’t hide died in the street dealing with one Jackel and one Hide.
To be honest i probably would have tried
To join my child if God pulled them to his side.
Thus, my soul and mind are placed in his hands where i confide.