I want to return the journal of scars,
Etched in my eyes by distant words,
Spoken by the masses,
The people in the classes,
Of higher society on a step above me;

Down the evolutionary ladder,
You will find my puddle of spit,
Somewhere inside it,
Lies the masachist,
That I moulded from miracle mud;

And I whisper inbetween screams,

Beggers were choosers,
Who chose their abusers,
And I'm the man who taught the children war.

With chains that bind the fingers,
And slowly break the will to write,
As I claw at my chest,
To be just like the rest,
Scarred with physical bruises as I impound my heart;

It's all in the mix of tears and salt,
Rubbing in the wounds on my cheek,
Feel it sting, burn, scratch,
Envokes more tears that patch,
The holes in my skin to cover the voids;

And I whisper inbetween screams,

Beggers were choosers,
Who chose their abusers,
And I'm the man who taught the children war.

Mark the taboos unto your pages,
A slash for every one you crave,
Mark it smoothly, slowly,
Watch as we carve it on your grave,
While chains bind our fingers,
Fingers too bruised to write,
Fingers with no will to fight;

and whisper inbetween screams,

beggers were choosers,
who chose their abusers,
and I'm the man who taught the children...

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