In the finest hour, pain is the kinder reminder. I still hate surprises though.

I hold a theory of old
Remote and absolute
About personal space and prayer
Firm like scars
As crimson as the familiar hatred that binds
Unit dear ones, do not cry tonight
We were in the verse of change
Our undoing was hoping for salvation
Whenever we understand, or better yet
Whenever we understand we ARE
our own masters, architects of our devises
makers of our own prisons and demise, alas;

Oh my, I thought I had made it clear, clearly not
How I hate this old jiggle
The scene, the tone, the self-embrace
As we sing ourselves to sleep
To rest my head on her bosom again
Haven't I told you? About this theory of mine
It revolves around personal space
or lack of it.
A barrier, pushing grounds to a mental breakdown
A powerful accelerator of the heart pulse
How awful to become embarrassed
How sinful could it possibly be
To admit I have this highly regarded need
for some lovely fingers massaging my skull with intent
to caress my hair, hold me close and deary, keeping my safe through the night
no more nightmares, no more hounds barking at my ears
I swear I am either going insane
or its a folly ironic state of affairs this world has came to
we must actually been striving straight down to this lonesome end-game result
To swallow the pills and end up alone? Now now, everyone may got a disease
But to gang-up on shallowness? Clear the way, fuck the sorrow and see you lot tomorrow.

Pour me

I drink to forget I am alive
I drink to forget I know you
I drink to forget I survived

In order to howl to the moon
Without looking half-baked
Effort brings the cake home
Poor me, oh poor me
Do pour me another
I haven't the faintest idea
What I ought to moan of late
I might faint, I might explode
Due to lack of enthusiasm
Should come to no surprise
How much more needy
I wished I had no control
Pull the trigger and boom
No limit, effortlessly fading
Away to the bottom of the next
Bottle that would, could be
My sole comfort and support
When things are rough
When life gets harsh
I drink to forget why I started

Shot the next man you see
Shot the messenger
The glass knocking at wood
Shall bring me better luck
Pour me another
I came from a broken home
And I got a worse excuse to go back to
Take pity at this soul
And let him sing his anguish through liquor
His throat will grow tired
Set aflame again and again
'It' has grown worse off late
I throw back some for the sheer amusement
Hoping to kill boredom
My bed composes of glass shards and agony
Vomit for a blanket and self-loathing instead
of a much needed shower
Ahah but you itch are nearly out of my mind

Drumming fingers crack no doors

I got this irritating itch
Up my wrists
Its agony to wait.
Scissors where may you be

I am overtaken by this shakes
My mind promises to break
Knees weak, dizziness spells
Hammer where may you be

I got this jolting pain
In my ears, inside my arms
The room closes down
ON ME

Head banging the wall
Doesn't seem to suffice
To wake me up you need more then a knife
You need more then minding the false step
Tripping, a consumed vice begs no chance
Let's play it smoothly, collapse in the dirt (that you call fucking floor)

Shuffling through life
Yet missing the briefing
We were supposed to sit in silence
I rather spend this last few moments
Enjoying the breeze
Having you tear my heart

Would someone kindly show me how
To carve calmness in my mind
I admit the echo generates doubt
And pause. Consorting with the blurs..
I want to be known past the point of recognizance

I drum my fingers
Up my arms to the very end of that table
Cracking them down as they flow
Like a madman counting the days and hours and the minutes and the lives
He takes with the same ease and he loses count of his path and direction, alike.
As if they were one and the same
Hello, mister clock wise man
Teaching those kids how to be good
Showing the door to those whose standards
fraternize with the demons inside who's head?

I am out on a hunch
I might die tonight
From fear of not trying
From coincidence or predestination
From willingness or a inconsequential push and shove
Awaiting the test results from the morgue
I believe in no ghosts.