Slightly unamused
Pretty Blond Hair
wrapped around his fist
in this house of a fucking lunatic
why did you hold me gently by my hand,
just to push me down this flight of stairs

Ive never yet made it to freedom,
and I have forgotten why I want to.
Im looking in the mirror at what I think you see
some body's last flower
but you might as well sleep with a corpse.
How could this be some ones dream,
when the same shit is hell for me
and even when Im lying
I still don't even know it
Which one are you,
and you are still the one that can quiet the screams

I don't care what you see
no one asked you to look at me
but if I ever return from that dark place
you will see
 why this is not a feeling.
Being dead is how you see your self
in a stable of pink ponies or a toxic waste dump grave
theres always a magical place for people that use people like us.

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