I'm a giant surviving on scraps from smaller hands, an Atlas without a known purpose living amongst Noam Chomskies and Ayne Rands, scrounging around this philosophical symphony for somthing hidden in the slaughterhouse of lambs.

Weather or not you want to thrive or just get by, there's that will to survive that we can't escape and it keeps us naive and blind.

Dangers keep us locked up and treated as strangers while reason is a mystery we search for in gangrenous church mangers and pound our proud heads against a cross till it craters.

Something earned is something lost and something we already have is nothing we can gain.

A bleak outlook gives advice to take a step back, not to take the other direction but to reclaim stepping stones as a momento of the life that we lack.

Like dawning a black coat while trying to infiltrate witches and ghouls unaware that your the monster in a makeshift faćade handing out nooses by the spools.

After which defending yourself on facts without merit to a town only left with fools.

What you can claim as facts are someone else's theories and someones reasoning is another person's fallacy.

The Noose is inductive to reasoning, in a world so free it's no wonder why The Noose makes such a perfect seasoning.

My poetry is open and bare on the examination table
While my brain falls into place in the exsanguination cradle
Pieces fit together like a monster from the old world fables
Set up to disassociate the Cains from the Ables

We're all meant to die
There's no harm in asking why
Self harm, drugs left in the arms, premeditation, self incrimination
It won't matter when we're stitched up in a Y

Theres hidden meanings in every line
A chance to put aside all the woes and keep feelings burning inside
When things are on the decline
I can write down facts and theories
Like self investigation as to why I'm feeling weary
No Overbearing intoxication here just a rough cut heart of ice melting due to overheating and slipping liquidation