A Hope in Hell
Why can't these thoughts let me be? They attack cloaked and hidden from all perception except feeling and make me feel trapped. Constricted, as if I'm being suffocated by an Anaconda who's sole purpose is to kill. But that's the Irony of it all because each day I wish for Death and it hides from me as if I'm not worthy of it. And these thoughts don't subside. My skin craves for Whisky to subdue the force of perception and hide from their venomous attacks but I'm denied it by hypocrisy which itself drowns each day in it self-created hell. It screams at me asking not for freedom but for reason to which I have no answer.
So I lay there thinking if it can't end, then can I at least find a glimpse of Death. Just a small window for me to breath through from this vacuum of life. Just a cut from a thread of infinite pain. If only someone could cut away at me so these scars which are covered in a bloody disguise, unimaginable to the ambiguous arseholes who deny to help and drink their way to salvation could fade away.
Alone I came and alone I'll go, but each moment drags by as if I'm tied to it by ball and chain on a pathway of guilt and fear. Each time I fall, I pray for Death and know I can't go on and hope someone would come and save me and free me from the tentacles of time but there's no saviour nor there's any hope. No Marine soldier to remind me of no purpose and no reward but just a battle in which I must fight and accept the darkness.
My skin's filthy worse than the darkest of all sins and Death is not going to ever release me from this ball and chain. I can hear them, can you? They just don't stop knocking, constricting until I break into a deep depression to which I have no answer or logic. Logic, an old friend who I haven't seen in a while who I could always rely on. He always led me to the gates of wisdom. But these gates are now closed to me and these thoughts don't let me be.
So I lay there thinking if it can't end, then can I at least find a glimpse of Death. Just a small window for me to breath through from this vacuum of life. Just a cut from a thread of infinite pain. If only someone could cut away at me so these scars which are covered in a bloody disguise, unimaginable to the ambiguous arseholes who deny to help and drink their way to salvation could fade away.
Alone I came and alone I'll go, but each moment drags by as if I'm tied to it by ball and chain on a pathway of guilt and fear. Each time I fall, I pray for Death and know I can't go on and hope someone would come and save me and free me from the tentacles of time but there's no saviour nor there's any hope. No Marine soldier to remind me of no purpose and no reward but just a battle in which I must fight and accept the darkness.
My skin's filthy worse than the darkest of all sins and Death is not going to ever release me from this ball and chain. I can hear them, can you? They just don't stop knocking, constricting until I break into a deep depression to which I have no answer or logic. Logic, an old friend who I haven't seen in a while who I could always rely on. He always led me to the gates of wisdom. But these gates are now closed to me and these thoughts don't let me be.
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