I try to spy myself going
down the crowded streets
where feeble feet see me defeated and deceased,
but the muddled fuck ups
stuck on hard drugs cutting off my fuckbug
are far from some long gone and
wrong forgotten gutter song
that I tried to make mine
in times of slime and
grime and

I’ll be fine,      I’ll be fine,

I’ll be fine,      I’ll be fine,

I’ll be fine,      I’ll be fine.

All I need is teeth underneath
the sheet I believe to be skin,
but what hot blood is caught
in-between the scream and the dream?
Or do I store more in
what came before and never forget
the past that came after
I headed for the sad and the dead?

Whatever words turn true,
                    they are all meant for you.

My lost cross was crusted with
blood but not from familiar veins,
It did hit with shit-filled guilt
on the way to never again      or
am I lying like a crime in
the lightless nights and is it still killing
the will to live and
give tilted if not stilted
shame to a game my blame
gave away on hated blades
of my plain and maimed name.

Whatever the story, I don’t believe it…