Genocide Approach It's People Like You Who Give People Like Me A Reason
TO WRITE SONGS LIKE THIS ABOUT PEOPLE LIKE YOU
Masochism is the new fashionable accessory for the
sadists. All-seeing eyes give the cowardly and timid
motivation to wear their afflictions on their sleeves.
Saturday night's alright for martyrs and rapists to
equate their positions. Golden pillars give way under
the weight of prison bars. In this world, the water
flows like stale concrete, but at least it's easy to
swallow. Rites of bloodletting sway like soulless
children, arm in arm with blackout threnodies. May I
have this dance, my love? A simple series of twirls and
gazes into skies incised by our Sisyphean dialogue.
Laughing at the sound of it. Forgiveness? -- There's no
such luck. It's 4 am and I'm wide awake, blowing oxygen
out of this open window. Perhaps she was simply well-
versed in her sense of ironic attachment. Perhaps she
is wide awake at 4 am too. Tonight I will be courting
my demons at a candlelit dinner. I will slip them
sleeping pills and have my way with them. She signs her
name on her leaden gift so the world will know she was
the last thing to go through my mind. Saturday night's
alright for forgiveness to be forgotten and left for
dead. Knee-deep in a codeine valentine, she's screaming
with open arms for the murder scene to cease. Set the
stage, baby. The show must go on. Now I watch as she
embodies a trigger-happy Don Quixote scripted to crush
with the weight of a feather torn from the wings of
this blackened November. This last letter I have
written will be sealed with the paper upon which you
wrote the last letter you gave me. I love you but my
hands are weak. I fear I cannot hold on much longer.
You stole my heart; prove to me it's still yours. Hide
it deep within the pavement. I want you to keep it
forever; just never let it tarnish. I said I'd wait
forever. Today will mark its end. I have waited like a
corpse fashioned for a lost soul. I have waited like a
lost soul fashioned for your consumption. Your eyes
shone brightest under a crimson moonlight, graciously
perverse. So let the blood be spilled and these
fragments of you be burned away. Ignite the walls and
break the windows and anoint your forehead with the
ashes in self-consecration because no one lives here
anymore, no one lives here anymore, no one lives here
anymore. I said I would wait forever for you. I guess
I'm just as bad of a liar as you.