What's a worm supposed to do when everything's in
scraps.
Torn out hearts and busted parts and nothing left
to do.
Everything I touch just turns to wreckage on this
shore.
Perhaps this whore should find someone with even
less a clue.
What's in a name? Well this one's looking thinner
by the day.
But it's not given out like lies and ounces of
myself.
So I can go on knowing they can't find me once
away,
So now I'm just a lonely nameless, faceless one
night hell.
What's with the weather lately, always two
degrees below,
Whatever wraps this carcass tripping crossed
these empty streets.
Skin and bones and silver pieces to those in the
know.
The light don't see me as I slip from shadow into
sheets.
Rain has turned to iron ripping down this rigid
face.
Leaning to the wind as even more wet licks my
spine.
Winding down the staircase in this blue-black
rusted place.
So indigo the filter of the light against my
mind.
It's four a.m. again I'm in the claustrophobic
state.
Consumed by walls swallowing hate and dying for a
cause.
It's never ending nothing that's injected to my
soul,
But I won't trade this icy hole, I know the
morning draws.
I need the lusting back and coursing through me.
Hunger seems so foreign now, foreign to be.
Thrust beneath this light of "satisfaction's
left me dry."
So now this wind burnt skull just wants to want
to want to want to try.
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