should’ve gotten rid of it, sold
when I had the chance, this soul…
now it’s got me in a choke-hold
exorcising peace from me, no… no.
doesn’t let me sleep, oh sir, no!
can’t leave my nights alone,
and when I’m worse than low
reminds of all the pride I swallowed.
For men who couldn’t, for a fuck’s worth,
know how to be a friend, for all the hurt
I hid from the women, the fluttering moths
they were for their fondness of change; to rot.
And now I’m burning up in the cold
let my heart grind down to a stone
I hear it no more, complaining no more
of how tired it is, like I give a shit anymore.
though my skin’s burning down to the bone
my showers don’t seem to feel any warm, oh
curse these curtains blue and goddamn blown
I’m melting down like a sad volcano.
and for what?
For men who couldn’t, for a fuck’s worth,
know how to be a friend, for all the hurt
I hid from the women, the fluttering moths
they were for their fondness of change; to rot.
I’m the iffy muse bemused, confused, refused
I’m that one sorry sight of a bullet almost used,
worthless in & of itself but a pungent souvenir
of bejeweled delusions swinging off chandeliers.
Delusions of simple & blind trust unjust, bringing
about revolting calamity of vulnerability, ending
up making shit feel like one really ugly duckling
just watching itself turning into juicy roadkill.
and for what?
For men who couldn’t, for a fuck’s worth,
know how to be a friend, for all the hurt
I hid from the women, the fluttering moths
they were for their fondness of change; to rot.
The worst hits last, perhaps for a climactic end
that I knew of all this, way before it happened
but had given way, and allowed to feel things and
now I’m a fool who ditched principles just to repent.
And here I am, 3 AM as the stupid clock chimes
trying to tire myself out before it’s again time
for the avalanches of regret come chasing;
to desperately fall asleep before I break again.
and for what?
For men who couldn’t, for a fuck’s worth,
know how to be a friend, for all the hurt
I hid from the women, the fluttering moths
they were for their fondness of change; to rot.
the Inked Dreams 