When I crossed off the cross, I uncrossed my fingers.
I was only lying to myself like lying on a bed of nails with the weight upon my chest
from all my forbidden failures.
It was the pressure of my priors weighing down on my priorities.
I wanted to dream bigger than the bigotry that surrounded me, but when I sleep I
find no ease until I think of my tomb and how I'd rather be there than be here with
you.
Living in the fear of god or dying in the news.
Between the church and the media, we're bound to be abused - by one of the two types
of evil.
And I'll hang myself from the radio towers
and steeples as a symbol of generation death because we the people
don't give a shit about what's best as long as it appears like we do.
Everybody's losing sight and I'm just losing sleep.
Feeling out of step with counting the black sheep.
This world and me are both awful and off sync.
Nocturnal. Not breathing. Graveyard breach.
And as a ghost, I watch people twitch as the gears twist
between their ears as they face what their fear is.
Close your eyes, we know that's how you're trained.
Having the choice is the difference between the darkness and the shade the universe
gets blame.
That's okay, because this life is a game of give up and take away.
What goes around comes around in a noose that's homemade and sometimes a rope break
is the toll that it takes to learn that there's more than one way to do everything.
That sin is only washable in a faith that's completely optional so I'll bleach all
the skeletons that I have by the closetful.
If the world is so colorful,
why do we skew our optical into a black and white state of mind of wrong or right.
It's always both.
It's always the types of evil and it's always me.
It's in my pupils, devilishly.
The lesser evil, but not seemingly
You see Satan, but I see more wicked things inside your realities.
Gouging your own eyes out with a crucifix.
It won't fix the facts that you saw the sin as you committed.
You exploited your own innocence and it left you blind as a mole and empty as a mold
of a man who exchanged a cheap break for self-control and a promise of a paradise.
To quickly apologize to live and lead a paradox even though it's a paradigm for hatred.
If this life is what you make it, I hope you like sleeping on your self-built bed
of nails. Chewing down your nail bed. Evil elegance blooms the apocalypse as we eclipse
ourselves in the loom.
Decomposing light but consuming doom.
One pitchfork at a time, we poison ourselves to kill the truth - that failure is
in fear.
That fear is a lie. A lie. A lie. A lie.
Alive in you.
