The ultimate divulgence of negative energy. A lucid description of my Achilles Heel. |
When I speak in confessions I don't speak for the art I speak so I may understand the inner fog of agony that leaves me spellbound and vexed I speak so the shattered can relate I speak so they can take it with them when the soul dissolutes from beneath the grave These harmonious words narrating dissonant times were bound to gestate and burst forth, illustrious birth from the haven of my unrest It was a wretched undertaking to assume I could hold counsel between the molten contradictions of my self imposed necrosis and idealist innocence To even think I could regain wisdom torched by the magma of a billion vapid years of meaning and three sinful years of dementia To even fathom a life of slumber rested health and inches on my bones a pretty face that gleams with diligence razor sharp acumen, a jagged moxie... Just projected glimmers. Instead, I grow more emaciated lose more flesh to the flames losing more time to the days These things that cannot be For reasons I don't know why will electrify us the nation of cemetary children who cannot escape the coils of penance for our sloth who ravage their mind, body and spirit as they watch themselves suffocate who divulge operas of agony before receding quietly into complacent suburbia who sacrifice the musings of eternity and thoughts of nothingness for cookies and facebook who will be unknown martyrs by sinking into the radioactive lakes of New Jersey claustrophobes breathless underneath miles of insects and dead plastic by sprinting to the sky to be free and boundless amongst a brisk tornado and atmospheric music reaching new levels of sonic ecstacy they will electrify us negatrons in our bloodstream so that we, the people of the macabre will gain back all we've lost and continue to love the black haired girl, the indescribable goddess of creativity and guile She's my very own femme fatale. |