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.