Her passion was life
Her agony was divine
Her choice was death

but that handle was made for his hand
hand - handle
handle - hand

the fingers would close
around it to never let go
It had to have flesh around it
at all times
But the blade...
the blade was still naked. He couldn't let
the blade naked
It wasn't fair

"So that's why you stabbed your
mommy then?" the psychiatrist asked him.

"Yes," he said.

"The knife is more important
to you than mommy?"

"The knife listens. Mommy doesn't."

I built a prison
And so often it changes colour
Through its window
You can see the world
So ugly and so vain
You could hold the bars
And stare outside
Yearning for a taste
Of the gloom and pain
But you're bound
With shackles made of silence
From which you cannot recover
It's a lonely place,
This dreary prison
And your mind will turn
Into a foe
Your bones will grow weary
And you'll always be cynical
Your nails will drag down the walls
And the pounding will never stop
Thump-thump, thump-thump
It will pulse through the ground
The torn walls
And flaying tendons
Will flood you with their ichor
You'll want to move,
To make it stop
Stop the life from spilling
But you can't,
You'll lay on the ground
Letting my heart
Take you prisoner