Old pictures paint false delusions I wonder why no one has ever captured mine?
Tears are nothing to empty hearts, guess it pays to be a ******* than a dreamers second chance.
I buried my thoughts in a shallow grave.
Only to unearth my soul upon this page.

The lit cigarette and yet another empty bottle of *****.
We fumble in desires bound by shackles formed by a ever present need.
Tonight she lusts for another yet settles for me.

Her empty room is better than a cluttered prison of your own creation.
Her taste of strawberry doesn't damper my burn, contact of the flesh isn't a connection of soul.
Simply a reflex of addiction and mine knows no end.

The furnace burns through the night yet can't kindle this flame.
Some **** is better left dead!
Her poison knows no antidote I simply revel in this decay.

Remorse is for the weak the cigarettes light glows from her presence from the edge of the bed.
She looks at the shadows on the wall casts from the cities night.
As she wonders does he want as she?

There are many forms of emptiness, and far too little definitions of being alone.

She lingers in thought for only a second, and then she is gone.