A Portrait Of The Artist

Oh where, oh where art thou my love? alas, i am alone.
Concealed, obscure, but rendered pure. my blood upon the rose.
The trees are dressed in decadence. stripped bare from limb to bone.
And i am but a siren’s fool whose heart has turned to stone.

I have a strong distaste of last nights mistakes polluting
My tongue this morning.
From getting drunk and telling lies.
There’s a girl in the bed, her clothes on the ground,
She aint mrs. right, she’s just ms. right now,
And i resent her as she sleeps.
It was the sky, the stars, the way that she kissed me,
The beer, the rum, the gin and the whiskey,
And the haunting fear of being alone.
I got a bloody nose, and an empty bag, to accompany my empty heart.
Are we plastic? are we mannequins?
I am so torn.

As we howl at the moon, and curse the gods that we don’t believe in,
Smashing our ashes like glass into caskets, still waiting.

So i’ll inhale the blue-black cold, and hide my face behind my hands.
Cause they mold the dark where i am safe.
I’ve kept these dreams a secret, of taking flight and finding meaning
In this world and in my bleeding.
I blow my kisses to the pavement.
Bingeing the beast of our towered thoughts,
Stitching tall tales and steep tongues,
Ever twisted and entangled in the fabric of the night.
We are still, we are still, we are still waiting.
I am so torn.

As we howl at the moon, and curse the gods that we don’t believe in,
Smashing our ashes like glass into caskets, still waiting.
So if you are a wretch like me you know this all too well.
These rocks in our bodies will fail us someday.

Pull out his eyes, pull out his eyes. apologize.