Can it be possible
To forget what it is to be...

Tip of my tongue
Dying and Dry...

I could promise you a million things
but not give you a single one of them...

Huddled in the corner
of a mind that cannot decide...

This is the Image
I was forced to Paint...

Toxic
I want to run through your veins and poison...

Fluttering as you gaze,
your head cocked to the side...

Pinned to a piece of paper
outstretched beneath my searching fingers...

Memories
Sliding...

So this is the tide
So this is the sound...

It is an instant of impact, of sheer embrace
where metal meets flesh...

Weak!
Gods do I hate myself...