1 2 3,
I will kill you, don't turn around...
Our agendas were written by two different hands,
in two different languages...
Trash all your cities
Murder your people...
I welcome you to this little wonderland,
Where all nightmares comes from...
Skin so dirty, yet so clean,
Flawless being but broken beyond repair...
Alone in the wilderness of a pitch black forest,
the only light roars from a burning ember...
When the garden of death withers in hues of all,
And the screams of dryads fill the starry sky...
Being a fly on the wall is so overrated;
though I wish I didn't have to find out the hard...
They smell him
And the blood rushing...
Numbness, you call it an act of rebellion against...
That causes deep sadness inside of one's self...
You cruelly scrap your nasty,
murderous fingers down my bare back...
I could be anyone I don't know
parts of me are unknowably strange...