Allow the grease to drip upon me,
And I scream with futility.
Why won't He stop this?
What did I ever do to deserve
What He has given me?

All I've ever wanted is to grow,
To have someone crawl inside me so I know
That compassion really exists,
That these blisters have a purpose,
But these redundant streets make me so sick.

Tell me right now before I lose it,
Before I forget all that I really needed.
Sever the skin and bleed.
What am I supposed to do?
Because I'm overdosing on this disease.

It's not that there's nothing to say,
It's finding the perfect place,
To slip confessions into, like nails on a stake,
But we bite back our words,
And slip our tainted tongues into the mouths of saints.

What am I supposed to do?
How does He expect me to go on
When I don't have you?
How many grains of sanity must I retrieve
Before He cures me?

Exclamation points dot every cry.
Angels close their wings and shut their eyes.
Blasphemy coursing through these wet veins.
Hatred swimming within the blood stains
That align your luscious neck...

'The point,' she says, 'is always beyond the target'
'So figure out what you want and grab it.'
In my hands, I hold the strongest heart.
In my stare, I hold the most gorgeous gaze.
Esoteric though it may be, the shadows are where we stay.

Clench my fists and rage war
Against the omnipotent sky that demands the floor.
Rose petals glide through the air.
Razorblades slice through the flesh.
But every kiss leaves you with the burden of care.

Someone, envelope me in wings,
Warm me so I know what love means.
Shelter me with the pressure of glowing smiles.
Make me forget, for just a little while,
All these things that crave a somber expedient.

Tears course down this haunted face,
Eyes echoing with what can never be erased,
Footsteps leading forward,
But the path never gets any shorter,
And the scenery is as constant as trepidation.

He handed me this sickness and this dark past
Like a dozen roses with a burning match.
If only He had eyes, I would stare him down
With the mirth of a thousand devils,
Rip into his being and bury the crown.

I suppose it is true, what we have said,
That our hearts pulse with love again and again,
But my lungs breathe in sorrow.
They collapse without the misery
And I will always crave the cycle of self-pity.