an ear it aches of music tastes like splintered glass
running through an autoshop of metal broken last
on the couch the chair the ceiling flesh to reeling
the worm inside my head it writhes and twists
in pinkish pain it extorts contorts complains
wishes it were real insists the wrists were not
wrought untold to taint my mind it will own my
to the from with but then a next that we for pry
tears knitted back into the mouth of woeful lies
the entrance of a chasm barren grounds of feeding festered
nothing left completely ravished and the worm he is still famished