Cynicism: The Poison of the Masses

December 14, 2008
Kiss my blazing hands and then
Proceed to remove my innards
The hollow of my heart taken
Fluttering, like the birds.

Pain isn’t as bad as empty
I know ‘cause I’ve had doses
Loads and loads too much spent here
Of both of these discolored roses

Decode, reload, still wish my dreams
Torn so well and tossed over-boat
Could follow my realities
And rip out their incompetent throats

I burn with fever no roots or herbs
Can cure or sooth so well
Timeless traditions stripped like those innards
Replaced with accurate cures from hell

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