There is no hope for my kind of crazy.
It spits and sputters, shakes and stutters.
Rages once ill conceived now burn and bleed.
Consistency of hope a false promise,
there are no healing spells, or magic potions
no perfect pills. Cutting flesh is for fools.
Settling is for tools, society is festering
it's flesh oozing greed and corruption.
I see the lines and circles.
From you to me, the web is incomplete,
and the madness
oh the madness
becomes bitter and sickly sweet