Walls are closing me in every day, I say.
My sentence is for infinite,
Not even an Indian king could give me
the air that I so desperately crave.
By that time, I'd be long into the center of Earth at my grave.
I want the touch of your skin,
To just let you right in to my cell.
Restrictions break our connections,
wrap chains around my waist,
pulling and tossing me into those
subzero rocks near the sea.
How glorious, yet impossible, that it would be.
Oh, how I've longed to touch the ocean,
yet they pull me back once more for the
half-hour free-for-all cannibal buffet.
Not a bite for me to scavenge on,
just a bone or two to scrounge out,
just the bare minimum to survive upon,
and, once again, my stomach never becomes full,
because I release it all during the throat-slitters' hour.
The loss of souls and minds
are made from the aggressiveness of brawn,
leaving bloodtrails down each and every corridor.
Not one limb has fallen from me,
though I'm aware of eunuchs to be,
who survived the previous slaughterfest hour.
I pray for you to never lose
the wonderful mind you learn with,
or find a guy with a girl you want to screw with,
because you will lose more than your mind.
You will lose your head,
left to drip your precious drops of life.