Shorn of apocryphal pride, the locks fall, predicting strife.
Cranium exposed, denial of aesthetic.
Push it a little farther, all of this into ashes, all of this torn to rags.
I don’t know what the fuck have I become?
Synapses snapping.
Mortality decimated.
Breakdown, whiskey shifts hate into overdrive.
Realizing it’s murder of the self so clean.
I don’t know what the fuck have I become?
Hand reaching out, desecrates impunity.
Ripping away foundation’s identity, replacing with shame. Transgressions mythologized, indiscretions immortalized. Anger inflamed with dry rot, pushing towards severance.
What a bloody mess.
Visit dark sites unknown, grief lands like a ton of bricks. All of this burnt to ashes, all of this torn to rags…