You are haunted and confused
By a custom made hell
And your thoughts are a struggle
And your words don't jell
But I see you, all of you
Ive focused and pierced
Your words, old to the new
And like a case of torn muscles
You're setting fire to my insides
But the irony is that
I'm still a sucker for your eyes
The dead juke box that beats
Inside of my chest belts out
The Song of you again and again
And I am happy to be lost
The only itch on my deluded skin
That rises tenaciously again and again
Is you're already too full with gone women and games
And I know that all of us have our very own ghosts
But I'd rather be your haunting
Than be no one of note