I can feel him clawing at my insides
a Swan blackened and broken -

lurking, he does hide

a figment of my deranged imagination

volatile, bruised, tortured, shattered

the altar of self pity, on which 
dead Angels wings are splattered 

help me, 
for I cannot think right 

help me, 
for all that is true hides in sight 

help me, 
I don't know who I am 

oh friend, where is thy former man?

Sorrow gnawing holes in these summer days 
nights passing trains, thoughts meaningless haze 
it itches my skin, contracting like muscle sinew 
the ***** dilapidated and cold from which he grew 

they wanted beauty, perfection, so I will giveth it 
the outside glitters like gold, but the inside stinks like **** 

who am I to stop the man that wants to come forth
for is it not true life will be better -

and so, if not?