Transformation, altered state and revolution,
All heads bowed at the church of violence, vicious men worshipping the shadows of their fathers,
No one speaks a word,
Our language holds no words sacred enough to name our dead living and i know this, but I will catch myself meeting my own eyes in the mirror at midnight,
Letting every ghost that slipped through my fingers fall from my lips, dance a slow burning waltz around my bathroom, and collapse into my bed,
In this way death is not solid, it is a fluid parade of transition, a transfer of power,
The clocks will not stop for me or anyone,
The scales will level out

When I was young I was told the Holy Ghost lived inside me so I opened my wrists, to let the light out, return God to the sky and dull the Devil’s fangs,
I call this a ritual, but anything that drags the demons from the body and forces them into conversation can be called an exorcism,
I listen and I hear the Father scream,
I hear the Son weep,
I want to find out where it went wrong

I want to release the pressure,
To be adored, neurotic saint of the suicide machine, hung up in a museum adorned in my finest clothes, the site of every pilgrimage for every lunatic ****** artist this side of hell,
To spread my caged ****** blood like a plague across this land, to father a generation so jagged and broken that all they know to revolt against is their own survival instinct,
To become first flesh, then blood, then ash, then spirit, then eternity

But what do I know, I’m nothing without this,
I authored my own fate and lost the plot,
I can’t speak for you or your blood,
I don’t know what it sings for,
I don’t know if it aches or howls like my blood,
All I know is, when we are drained of it,
When the light leaves our eyes,
Our graves will be the same size