Always closer than you ever think it is, one
Little slip, and you're straight through the abyss
Finding out in the end, all life ends. Carrion.
Vultures with eight tracks and tape decks

Copulation and emotion means I'm breeding ****** hatred
And I hate it
Mockeries of notions once raised
In earnest
Flirting with danger, burning moth to the flame
Stirring up anger with a few thoughts on pages
Irking, and senseless, the ******* sensation

Self righteous indignation, taking words of the page
Same goes for the gumption, with wars that I wage with myself
Heath goes first, better or worse
Slit eyelids, cause it can't hurt to see straight

It's always closer than you ******* think it is, one
Little slip, and this bleakness you insist
In existing in, ends, without a prerogative
As opaque as ever, severing lungs

Servitude, I could never miss, its
Fluid as my thoughts on narcissist