I watched as that needle drained you of your capacity. Capacity to feel. Capacity to deal. Capacity to reel in the really real. I watched and I knew that devil was one I would never *****.

I never really liked
my name much
until I found out
what it tastes like
when you sigh it
into my mouth

I put my guts to my glory so that everyone around me has a safety net thrifted into their detailed story

Where does that leave the seamstress at the end of the day, while sewing up tattered *****, wave and watch that memory fade to yesterday

The vice is the voice inside each borrowed choice, the dice thrown down, it's snake eyes now doing all the suffocating in my glass windowed town

I keep stitching up these frays and splits, and each time I know I'm choosing it. Something given to me so it wouldn't be right not to share, but like clockwork I turn and thread that needle with my hair

None of that matters it's neither here nor there. I'm stuck in torpor relishing your dark poison spears. Don't take your cries to the said man of the Sunday hour, the seamstress is here to patch your holes, frays, and splits, and then leave you for the vultures to devour the rest of your ****-

Always with the separate rooms, same separate landlocked pontoons. Another follow up,  billow of rank stank air, stale like the calming still of shell shocked monsoons, into the deep dark abyss I stare-

Heightens my senses, that still begotten presence of quarantined ill begotten dimensions, left stark and in the dark with nothing but the whistling of our declining pensions-

Repentance ask it of yourself, there's always an extra bottle on the tippy top shelf, reach high, you don't have to lie now, go ahead and lay that lye down-

Corrosion never felt so **** good...

Anything he calls me it must be true, Opinions are like ******* but I must be too

Nothing is everything and everything is wrapped up tight, right and everything is counterbalanced with unintentional natural born spite

This fog filled phantoms box I'm stowed away in
Pandora's dopplegangster the wicked we, the hidden brethren

So locked to my box no keys to set me free, I listen to all of beautifully damaging words he believes me to be

Opinions are like ******* but I must be one too, anything he calls me must be true