These migraines have migrated into mirages The mirror shows fractals underneath my eyelids
Is it liquor? Is it the shame? Is it the voices in extortion? Have I lost it? Is it too late?
The immaculate conception will be an immediate massacre Broken hearts can cause migraines The people scream The pastor prays but unfortunately this mass can’t concur Is it too late to be saved? Is it too late to be forgiven? • If this is real Tell me why I’m still able to breathe freely I just might break the mirror Open up my eyes an realize my reality is destined on this distain The whiskey is spilt But what does that matter when you have given everything up An start reminiscing on revenge’s thirst
In the beginning… I remember that once I was a calm sea I had always let others dictate how my life should be But thanks to you, I’ve awakened to the harsh realities That the only person who has my best interests at heart is me
You may run your mouth, spew your hatred behind my back Your trivial nonsense will get no rise out of me For I am now a wrathful storm hell bent on revenge So I bring with me the power of lightning and thunder And with the promise of never returning I pull you under
Now that you see who I really am Should you test my limits once again That will be the last time you ever see the sun Because I am the rage you created… And I am done.
I am the pretty thing that lives under your house. You left me there to rot, to be forgotten like a flower that's never been watered and withers. So how ironic must it be to see a single rose bloom from my grave?
I am the pretty thing that stands next to your bed, watching your chest rise and fall. I bend down to whisper in your ear and though you may have taken my voice, the air coils and delivers my message. Standing, I withdraw to the shadows.
I am the pretty thing whose face suddenly appears in the dark space of your twisted mind where you thought you buried me for good. Gasping for breath, you wake up drenched in sweat. You wonder if you're being irrational or going crazy.
I am the pretty thing that came back. How lovely it is to make you insane! You look beautiful in that straight jacket, surrounded by alabaster walls with no windows. It's only when you’re finally captured that you drop all pretense, professing that it’s my blood that is forever stained on your hands.
I am now the pretty thing with a dagger in my smile.
Revenge, sounds like fun, sounds like healing doesn't it? Revenge, sounds like justice, but is it? Hate is a wall we build within. That wall reaches the heavens, and revenge can turn everything dark. The knife that we pulled from our back with revenge, has now stabbed us straight through the heart.