Nothing ever came so easy as the manipulation of her word.
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Cold and humiliated, i tried to portray this mess.
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I should fear it.
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I should give it all to them and be done with it.
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I fear he maybe found a use.
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A meaning or comprehension.
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Some sort of new birth or late coming death.
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Who's eyes will govern this judgment?
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It's just not my place to judge who tried or to condemn who cried.
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I want to be her. I want all of the answers.
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A crusty and scratchy mess shielded only by burlap
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and the satisfaction of knowing.
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But i know nothing. I am the impostor.
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The fake bastard holding on to dreams.
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I want all the answers.
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I won't wince at each neck's snap nor help at the hint of hope,
|
i'll just lie here wet and willing to provoke you.
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Still no closure.
|
Cold is so damn trite and evil was never glamorous.
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Still it sells so fucking buy it as politics mean nothing now.
|
As it's already in their heads. In their hands it resides a mark.
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So i leave mine as well to finally be picked apart.
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Dissected and forgotten.
|
Ignored at best. But it's still a mark.
|
She gave me rope and i climb.
|
|
-----------------
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Still It Sells
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| Coalesce |
