Sunday, April 28, 2013


He's writing the words that are making me sick.

With a pen in his hand he drills a hole in my head.

It fills with decay until it's good and fed.

He's playing the songs that are making me sick.

The melody burns my flesh into bone.

It hurts until its numb until I'm dead and alone.

He's painting the pictures that are making me sick.

I tear out my eyes and I swallow them whole.

I want to witness the infection in my soul.

The kind of art that makes me itch and pick.

And it breaks me and takes me and keeps me sick.

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