Red pen falls from jaded fingers
-pick it up with a sigh-
spirits fallen like autumn leaves
within introverted pessimism

Try to brush it off like dirt from scabbed knees
correlates pulling the heart from an oak tree
It's seeded deep within my being
existing therein
unneeded
I'm undeserving of my own skin....

A turnkey from which you'd rather be free
Thwarting forever your omnipotence
An unintentional waste of your time
Stuck with my Kismet of Maladay

But this is bullshit sorrow and my soul's clutching to hope
to abolish this loathing self pity inside
Spilling tears from raw eyes
carressing a leaking red pen
Daydreaming of fingerpainting this shit in blood...
But instead I let the paper soak up these woe-be-gones
which needn't be said

Had not they stemed from me
would my jussive abuse be any less abusive?
Your time be any less wasted?
Money flow more swiftely had my fingers not bled for it?
Our vows been kept more thouroughly, had they not come from me??

What shall my deathsman be O' egocentric sublimer
to abate the workload of my scene?
Even in this I still come to you for the answer
so I will not burden you....

I prefer, should my decision matter at all, to be put upon the pyre
so unto the God's I may be free.

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