The Map

Passed down through the days,
the map was now far beyond
moth-eaten
and archaic.

You creased it closed
with folds
instead,
and it caused
some of the smaller roads
to disappear beneath the lines.

Those were the ones
you chose to travel,
when I wasn't looking,
because you knew
I could never follow.

And maybe that was
even the reason
why you folded
instead.

Scrawl

Each scrawled line I write
is my testament and descent
into these darker shades of red.

I could contest the fact
or accept the truth,
but nothing will bring me peace.

A third solution
would be my reparation
with your pretty, little head
mounted on my wall.

But that's just wishful thinking,
I suppose.

Time (III)

I can see
that you're still doing just fine,
or so you think to yourself,
which may be a crime.
And as the cycle approaches nine,
all that's left is time.
I can see
you still color inside the lines,
and you still take time
for others' lives. Just not mine.
Not last time, not this time.
No, never mine.
But that's not a crime.
Just out of place

and out of line.

No Virtuoso

Sometimes
I just sit
and ponder
in absolute
amazement
at how completely
fucking
brilliant
I really am.
But every time,
after several minutes
and without fail,
I begin to realize
that I am actually
quite moderate.
I remember that
I am no virtuoso
and that you
half-baked sows
are all just
out to lunch.
Very
fucking
out to lunch.

Letter Y

Two years I've held my breath, with two times the effort you put forth. Two words and you walked away. So breathe, because today's the day that I make you pay. I've written it all down for you, so you'll see it coming. But regardless, you'll never escape your unbecoming. I will end you here today. Today's the day you have last words to say, since you'll never see tomorrow anyway. Today's the day. Two years I've held my breath, with two times the effort you ever gave. Today's the day I finally exhale and dig you a shallow grave. And to be perfectly honest, it no longer matters why. Hush, my dear, please don't cry. It's just that today's the day you die. Today I give you two goodbyes, one for each year, and one more goodbye for each you're not here. I'll never see your face on other faces, or remember us ever going places. I'll make every little detail untrue. I'll never remember you. Today's the day. Today's the day I leave you instead. Two more minutes and you'll be dead. Today's the day, after all you said, that I leave you for fucking dead. Hush, my dear, please don't cry. Say goodbye, because today you die.

Letter X

There's no more Seattle, so the rain comes here instead. No hope for tomorrow, and none for today. And there's no more Seattle because you only lied when you said there's hope for tomorrow, and hope for today. In a past now forgotten, you had drawn a visage of villainy in your kin. It grew like a sickness and spread. In a past never begot, yet foregone, a nightmare of memories once been had birthed a persuasion in my head. Now we've grown tired, withered and old. You've grown weary of vindictive remarks, and I can't escape my staggering failure. Now I've grown tired, bitter and cold, and so frustrated since we never embarked that my dreams implode without closure. So many years ago, when we were young, you had self-centered, selfish suggestions and petty, little plans all from the start. So many years ago, it should have stayed undone, and my dear two years, there's no question, ruin began to grow in your gold brick heart. Now there's no more Seattle, so the rain comes here instead, no hope for tomorrow, and none for today. And there's no more Seattle because you only lied when you said there's hope for tomorrow, and hope for today.

The Ship of Theseus

Replace the plugs,
refasten the bolts,
I will do my homework,
take the tests
and grow from a boy into a man,
meet new people,
change the oil,
buy new tires and watch TV,
I will get a job and vote for mayor,
change the wipers and fix the A/C,
and as the years pass on by
you will begin to see
that I am no longer the person
you once knew me to be.

If I am Angra Mainyu

Not far from Ahura,
upside down
and written in contempt and disgust,
he, equal
in opportune
and all things unequaled,
became the stranger
and the libertine
and the boor
and the varlet to a throne
in the mind
of a sunset head-storm.

Ahriman dwelled
with Auramazdā in passing,
though no two homes alike,
each was the same.

Now encased
and ending on a prophecy
he read to himself,
the dusk ushered
the night
and second sight,
well-founded,
found the brothers
as conquerors
of it all.

If I am Angra Mainyu,
then he must surely be
Ahura Mazda.

Swell

Quite possibly
the most acute,
overbearing,
and morally
ambiguous desires
are everything
so unfounded,
and
utterly
barren.

Golden Boy

For the inglorious, and valueless,
and baseless, and the easily blamable
there is absolutely nothing worthy,
nor engaging, nor rational,
nor left, at all.

Time (II)

The inapt and noxious obligation
in the matter is slightly
more inconvenient than its first
effect.

1:08

It's 1:08
in the early Monday morning
and I can see the raccoons
behind the cigar smoke
one by one
on their way to my trash can
that I'm sure is laying wide open
like a fruitful cornucopia
from the strong storm
some hours before.

I finish the fourth beer
and feel a sense of relief
that perhaps
I finished something I started today.

Buzzed,
and Bukowski's breath grips me tight
and he digs his fingernails
deep into my skull
and I just can't bring myself
to fall asleep,
deceiving myself into believing
the prolonging of rest will
stand time still.

Then I begin to realize
I haven't finished anything
at all.

I think I'll have
another beer.

Crestfallen Confession

Can I slowly abide and remain ever-so-hesitant
and rest the expansive silence to circumvent?
Can my crazy confession calmly wait and adjourn
or will it be written and thrown away to burn?

I sleep and see myself falling with the stars
and awake to this novel world where you are.
I used to think I could grow old and gray
in a contemporary life that could slip away.

Can I slowly abide and remain in my intent
and rest the ending silence to circumvent?
Can my crestfallen song calmly wait by concern
or will it be written and thrown away to burn?

I lived many lives in only a matter of years
in a tasteless manner that left none to fear.
Therein lies my own one true sin to obscure
and words on this paper you burn are a cure.

Can I slowly abide and remain without consent
and rest the reaching silence to circumvent?
Can my crazy confession simply wait to yearn
or will it be written and thrown away to burn?
Will it be written and thrown away to burn?

Father and Son

We were young then - when it all came down,
when worries were far from our minds,
and the morning sun called us out to play
in untouched fields and fresh water ponds.

Our father was gentle then - when he loved us
most, and he didn't care more for his job
than he did for us, and when he trusted
our decisions whole-heartedly above all else.

But he became afraid then - when it seemed
we were growing older and preparing to stand
all on our own, and we asked for independence
that any son who becomes a man would wish.

Then the old man became angry - when we
needed him most, and the family was torn
apart in a feeble quarrel that split us up,
and sent us into the new world all alone.

The Source

Slipping dread and awe and undoing
each thought, each measure reviewing
until the placement of your doubt
slips and leaves you with no way out,
fallacy and fright plague the present
until you condone time not well spent,
until envy and disease become words
and anyone, anything else preferred,
silence, then, takes its own course
and you decide to destroy the source,
an action defined and lacking virtue,
but then, that was always you...

wasn't it?

The Wicked King Wicker

A mongrel's coarse tongue spoke laws
to relinquish the man of his own flaw,
to commission events in Pelham Bay,
to set forth a course he would obey.

Sam's son shouted at Queens thrice,
and once in Columbia spoken concise.

The bloodied Bronx brought two more,
and four finally fell but not before
the Twenty Two of Hell would write:
"For now I say goodbye and goodnight."

The Duke of Burgundy

Surely I could have been ceaseless
and unending in the beginning,
with ever none the wiser;

And slept the days away,
using my instar to establish
seeds of doubt in secrecy;

And kept other cats at bay
with the aid of air and brush
until the realization of exodus;

Surely the nefarious and miscreant
would then shudder at sight
of the great Duke of Burgundy.

Luna

I sifted through the tinsel and the sand
with an ever-argentine and vespertine zest,
we played as children near the uniform monolith,
an obelisk for every star
lined the extending open sky.

Celestial oceans slept ashore
and ash fell from the wound
that never healed.

And yet, the tide
was featureless.

We ran through basins and mare basalt
until we reached the highlands,
and played cops and robbers in craters.

The Earth seemed so big,
when we were small.

We were still too close.

The imposing pearl in your view
is just one leap and one eclipse
from leaving you.

The moon seems so bright tonight.

Sol

Fallacy shines its best at dawn
in this stolen stoning age of grins,
and grimace fills the cup to the brim.

Solaced eyes find their comfort
in dirty dusk and dusty dreams, and
it all just seems too decadent to ignore.

Twilight suns find their brightest
for broken phrase and for evanescent seams
that line the gap and even try
to bridge this grand open.

The faded stars tempt upon forgiveness
of which I can give none,
but I still whisper softly in their ears.

They utter back, and I don't listen.

Deadly gardens of fire burn sweetly,
and staunchly; they engulf, and eat me.

A somber slumber no longer; seas topple
and the hourglass bursts like a dam, and
I let the white wave wash over.

Each grasp is for the present,
and yet, it still slips.

Drifting in complete composure under
swollen lids, and laughter begins to beckon,
if only for the moment.

Good morning, or not.

The sun seems so bright today.

Khaos and the Fall of Order

Foresight is simply realization of rhythm;
there is no fortitude in consistent repetition,
no doctrine except in destruction.
Fickle hyperons resisting at every turn,
the epic splash of Tiamat,
and a plight to the perjurer Marduk.
That which made will sink.
Tonight all in a quantum revolt
the gaping chasm will swallow us whole.
Watch the patterns dissolve.
From Tigris and Euphrates
came eyes of foam and waves
that would give visions of cinder and ash.
She smote and spewed with such charm.
Goodbye, Babylon. Goodbye, Destiny.
Fact and science will not endure,
nor feeble superstitions.
I will see it through to its dramatic end:
the dynamic disassociation
and failed modern determinism;
stand for nothing, stop at nothing, even
for Pythagoras of Samos, none in vain.

Sc(r)am

Left to idle for an era
and left to sift through ages
that left in a hurry.
They went where all good things go
and where others went
to free themselves from
old tyrannical overbearance,
leaving only their ever-decaying pride.
Never resting or pondering
possibility in the making.
Sojourners that had sacrificed epics
and all they never really had
made for their long escape
into a void fully abundant
with eternal choice:
to always leave.

Hello, Cerebus, My Friend

I parted ways with my almost comatose cadaver.
Between inhale and exhale I was gone.
Her uttered vote voiced in all three tones
that should I leave my seated throne
I should surely take my place in her hall
to bask in the sweet glow of Armageddon.

Though a temptress at her best, I expected
the worst to come, of course.
Her behavior was based in appetence.
Rigorous and Draconian in distinct opposition
to any compromise I could hope for.
These were not the features of the only
woman I could trust, because surely
that twin was meant for so much more.

I gave this Venus her newly carriaged name
and shared vintage strawberry wine
with Baphomet, who were one and the same.
I demeaned the impossibility in isolation.

The venture began in the diseased fields
of the west with mechanical scarecrows
and endless mines of ore and continued further
to the wolves of the north howling at Luna to
their hearts’ content and then finally resting
on the futile outbursts of a distant
starburst galaxy contained all in conspiracy.
Affinity fell to sleep beneath the blanket
of the end and Chaos awoke to serenades
of inclination and natural tendencies.

Perhaps a lucid dream, but unlikely it seemed.
I shall walk this dirt road to Hell.
I bid my fond farewell and goodbyes, Lilith.
Hello, Cerebus, my friend.

Vs.

The distaff iris spit out rainbows
on the path to trees,
an augur for his sanguine resurgence
anterior to the brands
brandished for the flutter
ever so ensiform and jagged-edge
to sempiternal twins on the brink,
staunch fists and swords clashed,
refinement and incorruptibility
became a thing of the past
and sooner vistas, even.

Dynasty of Dyad

Prose, ever so seraphic,
nor celestial salvation,
should ever correlate
my aeonian repriever,
my rescuer of resolution,
my amaranth salvation.

At Odds with the World

When I move, muscles become my antagonists,
as though frequenting nothing in absolute,
held for ransom in heresy my doubt persists
in this routine you so hold dear in repute,
yet, despite the dread and felt disaffection
I promote my mind myself to a false belief
that comfort complete is within misdirection
and integrity can be found in disbelief,
one true barrier lies beyond my distrust
of any given cycle you can idolize as God,
my own dogma, my one belief is to combust
the reason you endure under that old facade.

Contra/Version

Disaffirmation is relief, which I
envy you wholly; and when you
negate the truth, liability
is simply no longer
any concern to you, but still it
lingers inside and rips you apart.

Coup d'oeil

As my forbearers firebombed the outskirts
and paved city streets in chromatic parades,
the wonders of the world
fell to my marauding progenitors
potentially freeing me from my ascension.
I should thank them, but I will not.
Their bursts and beams of light
covered the cloudscapes and deciduous sky
turning sun to shadow and saturnine smiles.
A caliginous concert for the converted.
Surely tomorrow will never come.
Eden is in a mushroom cloud.

A Centurion Broadcast (Raw Imperialist Radio)

The Caesar’s map is smeared in red blots
and it's filling up fast.
Even the sea is falling
to the legion of our civil duty.
We strike at the hordes who keep the land
and savior the sweet, sweet victory.
All the world will feel his wrath
for the glory of an idea: this union.

Might as fucking well be Helen of Troy.
They say Rome wasn't built in a day,
but let's see how fast it burns.

The Great Escape Down the Last Bayou

An old hat outlaw rashly on the run
with an overzealous heart and a gun,
the half-emptied shine jug,
the new left-shouldered slug,
and an impending mosiac still undone.

On the homemade raft down the bayou
to escape all those who would pursue
he strayed away from the coast
and the Mississippi ghosts
and the dragons to paddle on through.

Lights flickered beneath the canopies
as the creeping things began to tease
with their old tricks and hex
by this slightly erred annex,
so he left a token behind to appease.

Orphaned on his own accord, he'd admit,
though the past is nothing to forget,
and there would be no doubt,
so proven, he then took out
the old, ivory snake-eyes in his pocket.

The passive current would leave prize,
for beneath sins and his very eyes,
as his famine soon overcame
he no longer held his name,
and now his own mind was a disguise.

The crescent moon lit his final route
finding his way to water pouring out,
his determination could rest
where he settled in the west,
he knew what escape had brought about.

That Final Curtain

More and more I feel the need
to break away and recede
and shake away the past
and make today the last
time I'll walk these streets
and pace my feet in defeat,
so I'm planning for tomorrow
to escape the sorrow and regret,
to replace my debt, to live
and forget the tragedy
that seems to follow me and
make me disagree and make
a guarantee that I can get up,
I can stand up, rise up, and
leave this all behind, and
leave mankind in its own ruin,
these thoughts this late afternoon
leave me feeling it'll be soon,
this one thing is certain
that once that final curtain
starts closing in, I'll be
content within and I won't
be around, because I will
not die in this town.

What You Want is What You Need

You do it all to yourself
and blame others.
You want them to hurt you
so you have something new
to bitch about.
You love the pain
but say you don't.
You need somewhere
to rest your head.
So here, let me tie
this rope into a knot
and hang it from a tree.
Tilt your head to the side
when I let you drop
and just enjoy the ride,
you closet masochist.

carpel tunnel vIsIon

I sit impaired and uncaring
to the effects of a saturated mind
that unravel in distinct determination
to an unbecoming man who once
seemed to understand the consequences
of an apathetic mindset born
from the senseless and unsympathetic
and the unforgiving that placate
and hold contempt for the pure few
that grasp in their hands the six keys
to salvation while in themselves
they can only hope to destroy
what everyone else seems to fight for
and in time they desire nothing less
than the dissatisfaction of others
and the disassociation for a society
that is slightly less pleasurable
each day that ticks away in nothingness
and there is no chance that the paradox
and your own enigma created
on your own accord for the benefit
of no one since you wouldn't
have it any other way or perhaps
you haven't the slightest idea
what your ideas entail or entice
in the minds of our children and saviors
of the simple and untapped thought
that unite and provide us with all
we will ever possibly need to survive
but the only chance for something
so sweet is to put you at your
bitter end with a fell swing of an axe.

Thank the Pessimists

Optimists continue on
and persist to say
that they exist
in bliss and happiness
and that they're
rarely down and you
should "turn that frown
upside down" all for
the sake of forgiving
mistakes made by others
one after another.
That they aren't sad
when they lose what
they had to people
who already have all
they could want or need.
That they don't feel
greed, envy, or desire.
They just admire and
love, as if they're above
the rest in wanting the
best, and that the world
is just fine as it is.
They say pessimists
are never content
and their time spent
is a waste to everyone,
but what they've done
is presented a theory
that perhaps things
could be a bit better.
They hope when you don't.
They change when you won't.
Never needing something
more will mean you will
not exist anymore.
If you're complacent
and refuse to adapt
to the world around you
then you will find
the world has left you
for something better
for everyone in the end,
for people that could bend,
for those who hate trend,
for ideas that will send
you on your merry way
to the depths of the pit
of your blinded happiness.
"The grass is always greener"
unless you're an optimist
content with eating dirt.
It’s not so much “necessity
is the mother of invention”
as it is discontent with
simply being without.
Thank the pessimists
of the past for your
full, wonderful life.

The Gospel

In you birthed visions
from a passive placation
of bastions of fruition
of fallacy for a heretic
from an usurped power
providing no sanctity.
All misled to disguise
the tempted telling truth
of a seed planted, uneasy,
in such twisted motives
to erect in elevation
your rivaled rampart
so ripe for decay.
Led so far from home
you dethroned, discrowned,
and discredited a bitter
fool of his only fortune.
Now is the most opportune
to befriend the prophets
and saints, and preach
your holy gospel of dirt.
So continue your digging;
you will bury yourself
soon enough, I promise.

At the Edge of Now

This space of time that is all mine
could easily be termed a plateau,
no crescendo, nowhere else to go,
at the edge of now I will take my bow
and silently, somehow, consider
abandoning my post, and raise toast
to my coming ghost and the speak
of my selfish retreat into the space
of time that begins to remind me
of the edge of now, so I take my bow.

I Regress

You're complacent
without routine
while I erode,
and lose steady speech,
and recede and defect,
and slip into something
I forget how to define.
In time you will find
i shair not a singel thing
in comon with any 1 of you
and repete and refuze to change
while you acept wat gets throne
your way like its encredibil
but i stand my grownd
en constint repetishun
and wont bak down frum this
so keepyor denyall
keepyor contint
ill bejusfine
ul c

Silent Apologies

Condolences would be in order
for my inaction all these years,
but overbearing regrets will always
ensure failed attempts at constructing
any resemblance of an apology.
My words buckle and fall.
I'm so sorry.

A Petty Confession

Lately I'm feeling a bit tired,
tired of judging and assuming,
and getting lost in the thought
of pretending to understand
as if I know the in's and out's
or even the here and there,
and like how I know everything
they'll say before they even do.
I'm tired of the hate building
inside of me like a little bomb
just begging for a reason
to explode and bring an end.
I'm sick of your hostilities,
your cowardice, and your lies,
and your arrogance that steals
every shred of decency you had.
I no longer care if I'm right
or if I'm wrong, not anymore.
Call me apathetic, call me lazy,
because at least in the end
I won't be the one who's fucked.

The Ivory Throne

The king of the ivory throne,
the keeper of oaken walls
released his last breath.
Emebedded in the pearl floors
remain only his dying words,
encrypted in a forgotten tongue
and beneath the seal of kin.
Bretheren of the code
to which he followed
lay to rest his withered body
upon a pyre funeral in solemn honor.
No queen and no spawn,
the line is broken.
The ivory throne now sits empty.
A bastion of freedom slumbers in doubt.
Time will not heal this wound.

Remnant of an Outlaw

Maybe you could have told me why
not all actions have consequences,
and that gravity is just an invisible prison.
Or perhaps you could have described to me
how each wrinkle on your face
was actually a scar,
and that time was simply
supplemental to a lacking life.

Your fits of anger and tiding rage had reason,
I think, but I suppose
I will never feel that foundation.

They stole your sanity,
stole your concern,
and all they left your lonesome self was gall.
Bound in tellurian chains and buried beneath haze,
yet my own memories are not clouded,
not of your view.

I will never know why you saved those years for me
or why I tend to worship your shiny, little star.
The melody continues to loop when I hit 'repeat,'
and I begin to realize
I do this more often than I thought.

Behind that fragile shell
cased in bigotry and malice
was a man I still have yet to become,
come soon.

Your heart faded fourteen years
preceding your body.
I wonder if they will say the same for me.

No Shore

The tide came in
and the moon stayed high.

Water kept rising
and you lost your footing.

You called out for help,
but I never learned
to swim in this.

I can't save you.

But what I can do
is drown with you.

Escort

I saw fire in its eyes tonight,
a pyre where otherwise void,
and a question in its mind,
but no breath inside its lungs,
where it might call out, instead
it remained perched and stood staring
piercing straight through my regret,
and I knew why it came different tonight
as opposed to every night before,
but just like all of those nights
I was ready, and I knew what was coming,
my friend, my consort, my escort
from here to the very end,
ebony, and as clever as constant,
so sly, so smooth, and as quick as death.

Relive

Refuse to answer and deny the call,
stand your ground and accept no apologies,
five years after and it's finally come to end,
so change your course for the worse,
hold your footing and revive the past,
five days dead and keep the count,
use your fists and force your will,
demand relief and instill the fear,
five more minutes and you'll be dead.

City of Love

I want to walk
those city streets
and pretend
that I am immune,
lay my weary head to rest
in no one's arms,
dine without a meal,
toast without a glass,
and leave Paris in flames.

Caught Inside Another Daydream

I'm not your crutch, and don't need your touch,
'cause just a little of you is too much, and so
the people I trust can be counted on one hand,
I'm forgotten in lust, and so divided we stand,
I don't understand how I ever got to be this way,
but I know there's so much left for me to say,
'cause I'm sick of all your motherfucking faces,
you racists, you bigots, you backstabbing bitches,
you whores, your empty cores, and your clicks,
your tricks, you pricks, and all your bullshit,
you fakes, you phonies, and you wannabe homies,
baby-daddy's, baby-mama's, and all your drama,
people in power, even Jack Bauer, you celebrities,
the people on TV, and everyone who wants to be,
you trend-setters, you go-getters, you optimists,
you pessimists, pretty much everyone that persists
to tell me what to think and how I should act,
how to react, and that they have all the facts,
'cause I'm sick of all your fucking ugly faces,
I think you and the dead should switch places,
I might be crazy for thinking you're all the same,
but to me you're just numbers born without names,
I'm hopeless, I'm helpless, I'm fucking wealth-less,
got two houses but I'm still homeless, none the less,
I try my best to protest and live this unimpressed,
but the only rest I'll receive is when I leave,
and surcease to breathe, but yet, it all seems
to be a simple reverie that teems with utter awe,
something I saw, caught inside another daydream,
I'll sabotage you all, the cogs in the machine,
and remain unseen and unbeknownst to the rest,
it's something you never guessed, it's unforeseen,
something I saw, caught inside another daydream.

See You, See Me

Tending to stagnant and futile static
which tends to convey the anti-climatic,
it clicks and kicks and fights too quick
for you to catch those who live erratic,
but then, if I just stay here and stare,
and pretend to care, but act this unaware
as you continue to declare life unfair
you may vanish within my little prayer,
to see you see me sleep my life away,
to fade just a little more everyday.

The R-Town Zombie Invasion

I was headed out on my way to work when I walked by a passive retail clerk
who had empty eyes and a blank look, so I stopped him and threw a right hook,
and grabbed the tire iron behind the seat and beat him down to the concrete,
I knew this poor bastard had been bit and he would probably never make it,
the R-Town zombie invasion had begun, I knew the undead had finally come,
so I called Tyler and Sheebs, but they were already on their way to see me,
there was a group ahead of our trucks, so we sped up, jumped out and ducked,
the sky lit up and left the group dead ’cause of the nitroglycerin in the bed
that I keep for situations just like this ’cause we knew that zombies exist,
out of ammo, so we went to the gun store ’cause we’d been through this before,
but the guy at the desk had that same look and thirst so we shot that fuck first,
I saw some zombie kids headed off to school, but to them I couldn’t be as cruel,
rather than shooting them all in the head, I ran over them with their bus instead,
John lopped off the head of an old bitch and she fell down and started to twitch,
Brock pushed a shopping cart full of kerosene at some fat chicks with ice cream
and shot off a round that blew off their faces, and their hair, and their braces,
we hit the streets with shotguns and grenades as the zombies began to invade,
and decided we probably needed an assist, so we called our friends to enlist,
we blew up the mall and shot up Wal-Mart, but all of that was just the start,
we rigged explosives to McDonald’s and BK, and threw grenades at China Buffet,
we attacked every place where people go and left Richmond with a new asshole,
then we siphoned gas from Speedway and Shell after we sent those fuckers to Hell,
and turned the town into a police state and then we reassembled for our fate
to blockade all of the roads and doors and load back up to prepare for more,
with Molotov cocktails and machetes, the fucking undead will never be ready
for the fucking horsemen of the Apocalypse who severe heads and empty clips
like a little kid begging for some candy, so sit back and open up the brandy
and celebrate the end of this shithole town as we turn it the fuck upside down,
when you see us next you might want to grin, otherwise we’ll have to kill again.

Untitled and Freestyled

You're down with all the latest fuckin' trends,
but you shoulda known it'd hit you in the end,
and how you relate to your skank ass friends
and the fake ass men, where you been,
and distance you from your very kin,
fuck, I'm not the first to curse so much,
there's worse and you're just outta touch,
I can't say it, but I guess you can do it, literally,
and you shoulda knew it woulda come back around
when they're no longer around, your pride can't be found
and it leaves you beat and sobbin' on the ground,
and no matter what you think you found
you just can't bring yourself to find the help
that you clearly need, caught up in your greed
and when you stop to breathe and recollect
you realize that no one sees you with respect,
you're a fuckin' wreck and you know what's next,
even when you're at your best you're the worst,
everyone's dispersed and you can't fill your thirst
of temporary pleasure, of which there's no measure
or rhythm or rhyme and I think you know it's time
to realize what's mine is not yours, less is more,
and your empty fuckin' core makes you a fuckin' bore,
you're practically plastic with your trivial tricks,
the fuckin' rude attitude, and I'm completely sick,
your heart's cold and that shit gets so old so quick,
despite what you're told, or what they may say,
and there will come a day when you look back and pray
that your life wasn't a waste, and you'll be faced
with the question of your worth, the justice in your birth,
but you won't have a fuckin' clue, because all you ever knew
was when and where, but never who, and no one knew you,
and the worst comes when you're hollow, and who to follow,
and when you come to find that there's no tomorrow,
your shallow rage is the fuckin' best stage of your day,
I'm worn from your clichés and games you love to play,
you're nothin' new, but tomorrow's just another day,
well, for me, not you, 'cause bitch, you're through.

Moon Child

Taken from your very own grasp
was that one shot at destiny,
hit by another and it left you spinning
and gasping for air.
Time never healed your wounds.
Instead, you gave up
and no longer saw a reason to try.
Your core exposed and became your surface,
and however beautiful it was,
it could never be good enough for you.
Though you circle the same path,
a routine so hard to break,
every so often you find the grace
and courage within yourself to break free
and block the light so that everyone
can see only you,
if only for a moment.
For you, whose time will come.

The Dining Dead

The wrinkles begin to show,
creases in medium to absolute affinity,
nothing is fluent or fluid in this association
as we just attempt to go through the motions
in this naturally conventional liaison.

Nothing New

Don't kid yourself, you're just nothing new
because I've been down this old path before,
synonymous to everything I've been through,
you're completely offhand and nothing new.

Don't flatter yourself, you weren't that great,
it just really wasn't all that special, you see,
there isn't much that anyone could even debate,
you're the same story and you weren't that great.

Don't pretend this was ever anything unique,
you didn't say one thing that meant much,
you were a shallow mountain without a peak
because you were never once anything unique.

Don't kid yourself, you were nothing new,
and you’re going to die all alone, like me,
so I really just wanted to say 'thank you,'
you're simply irrelevant and nothing new.