I have a bone-heavy step as I walk through the neon lit, rain clogged street.?
I see the ragged, crooked teenagers sit in lines on a fence, cigars hooked between their teeth, no simile needed.
?I throw my temper into a pit as I place concrete over my chest to stop it from feeling.?
I clap two patches over my sight to refrain myself from seeing among the bloody, heartless men that have made me.?
Ce n'est pas la réalité. This is not reality.

In the light I feel my sight fading, it burns like a new born star.?
And the shattered remains of my cigarette case, and whores on Dare Lane give me an offer with a beg or a desperate wink.
?In the opium den I put a dollar or more on the desk and get a high in return.
?Through the smoke I see fractured people singing fractured songs, in the hopes it will make them forget what they’ve become.?
Ce n'est pas la réalité. This is not reality.

I burn an incense stick and draw a pentagram to see what it would do.?
The gays and lesbos down in the old cul-de-sac f*** each other while shouting the praises of their good American families.?
Somehow I find a knife a give myself a slash in each damned wrist.
?The rapists and hustlers seem to find cold comfort in the form of those teenagers who no longer have cigars between their teeth.?
Ce n'est pas la réalité. This is not reality.

I see you now sir, top hat and fob watch to hide your shitty principles.
?I hold my heart on my hand, chain saws and prisoners lined up to be cut apart and thrown together, teeth against bone. ?
There’s a red hole in my chest were I am no longer able to feel. ?
I see those teenagers one last time, cigarette blood shining on their lips and legs, give another reason to hate the domineering public face.?
C'est la réalité. This is reality.