allow me to sting the tip of my tongue to lick every drop of disappointment each of these failures let me drink, if there only be a God
The god, a wise one cruel and cunning. forecast me into a fight grim fatal and frightening, wrestle the nails from my fingers, lay before me the lamb to slaughter for the grin of knowing: I do not wake torchless in the caverns of a beast (rest, I am no coward) in place, that I am one shiv of cement grains more ahead of the rotting moments yet to come.
if not, I pull the recorder too far, my humid chest floods the sacred synapse pansied blood and frantics the light dwelling there
I did it idiot I do it to myself, no else let there be a light **** a light make it turnips, pounded eyeballs give me give give give give give a dry well with a bottom the color of dust.