I was born into the wrong generation,
just a little too late.
The revolution is dead.
I see cops **** citizens,
almost every day.
And not a single brick gets thrown?
City Hall isn't torched?
Are we really this hollow?
Are you people that ******* callous?
I bide my time,
hoping my brothers will wake soon.
When they're ready,
I'll show our so called shepherds,
there were wolves among their flock.
Our teeth are sharp.
And our stomachs empty.

Here comes my little chick-a-dee.
Here to sing of sin and sympathy.
Come to spill the truth to me.
Don't tell me brother.
Don't tell me brother.

These hills hold riddles in the lime.
The stars keep on telling me I'm fine.
I just can't seem to find the time.
Please save me sister.
Please save me sister.

Can't help but live within my past.
The sun sheds light on what I lack.
Everything I breathe turns into ash.
Forgive me father.
Forgive me father.

I watched the gates of Heaven crash,
how they tumbled unto earth.
Not much longer, did the kingdom last,
Oh how the angels burned.
God had had enough of us,
he set the world ablaze.
He sat back calmly and observed,
our final screams of pain.
Now all that's left is lonesome void,
in which God may contemplate.
The experiment had run it's course,
and it had been a great mistake.

I don't know what it's like,
to rise above it all.
Only, the feeling in your gut,
when one begins to fall.
And I couldn't speak a word,
on peace, serenity.
But I can tell a thousand tales,
of woe and misery.
If the gutter held a vote,
the king, would I be crowned.
So tell me things are looking up,
I'll show you the way down.

I'm not addicted,
liquor's just the fittest liquid
to sift through the litany
of **** my mind whips
into existence.
Aids in grippin
the intricate specifics
among twisted images
that slip from
simply cryptic to mystic.
It's not *******,
just simple statistics,
the rhyming gets better
when drinkings prolific.

The crickets,
sing of nothing.
While,
the stars watch,
in equitable silence.
I,
think of screaming,
my rejection,
to the sparkling void.
Cigarette smoke,
pirouettes,
in the wind.
Grace.
It all means nothing.
Clouds consume,
the scenery.
Rain,
drowns the music.
So it goes.

Once I had a garden,
built to spite my constant gloom.
I planted hope and happiness,
those seeds will never bloom.
I had hoped that all the rain,
would see the ground be rich.
But it seems my little cloud
has only proven to restrict.
Now within my garden,
but one lonely flower grows.
The oddest rose I've ever seen,
with petals made of bones.