September's Ramble

15th Sep 23:11

I mustn't feel that things are too perfect
Blood red roses and a powerful dialect
I want to hate but act upon it
A pounding thrust of demonic excitement

Revenge is best served in years to come
Than never to befall
Be it called such, that dwindling power
From my fist as it conquers all

Pain and anguish, she screams unto me
Heals to make me feel higher than heaven
Too comatose and too heavy for passion as such
And a weep to my command may so fault my touch

I needn't answer questions "Why?"
For a person I knew had to teach
That violence needn't dignity nor plausible reason
Just an overwhelming phase of powerful feeling

Dead and gone in the depth of bitterness
A fist says more than any mouth
Takes me high as I feed off imagery as such
A petty bark at my feet on all fours with much luck

A bruised and fatty carcass, A window to a devil
Broken and untouchable, as the bruises start to swell
Unmistakably horrendous, and a hellish shade of blue
A fool of a price to pay, for the pleasure of being you