There's a place in my mind that I go to when I think the world's not listening
There's a place in my mind that I go to when I think the world's not listening
There's no Future in the Gifts of my Past, my Past Presents don't survive Destiny
Yet here I am again, at the point of my breaking, Pain floods my mind and Memories fall in tears.
In the basement of my mind, just above the bleeding- to the left of the scars, and just above my fears,
There's a notebook. Full of skeletons and remnants, scribbled Ghosts and Demon's teeth
Memories held on to for memory's sake, memories forgotten, memories faked, just bones, no meat.
I retreat to this book, this book is the I that nobody knows, see? Nobody cares and nobody's nosey.
It's me with no mask, reflections with no glass. The mystery of the man, the holes in my personality.
Page one, these lines cut and ground up finely, cut under the razored pieces of a broken heart
Just put your head down and follow your nose, each ending in more pain than each line at the start
Lean back, try to breathe, choke back tears and a nose bleed, pinch it off and think of better times
It's all a blur, like sugar in a mixed drink, sweet with the bitter. A cocktail chilled in poison rhymes.
For a time the smile on the clown has returned, more memories extracted, and readily burned-
Easier still is returning to this shelf, where I create, package and sell myself my own brand of Hell.
The problem with burying the past is I always know exactly where I let it lie...
And at the first sign of moving on I retreat to the grave site, dig up the past, and let Demons fly
Taking each vial of poisoned memories, pulling the plunger back and searching frantically for a vein
Needle in my mouth, heart racing from anxiety- beating, wildly in my chest. "I need pain, I need pain-"
Miserable, Mumbling wreck, thumbing the crook in my elbow. "where is it?", my wrist. "WHERE is it?"
My knuckles. "WHERE is IT!?" My neck. Between my toes. My shin. My eye... "WHERE IS IT!"-
Finally, blood poisoned again with my hate, and my pain. Each Taxing habit, my shame, a dangerous cocktail too
Irreparable Damage, each time it kills me, like I never want to go thru it again, but reality hits... I haven't even got to Page Two.
In the basement of my mind, just above the bleeding- to the left of the scars, and just above my fears, There's a notebook.
I already know what's in it... I'm just afraid to look.