Express Unexplained Problems
SoMe ThInGs JuSt CaN'T Be ExPlAiNeD...
He doesn't do
anything (Oh Lord, Ahem)
The controverial nature of this poem
could be taken back
to when no-body knew
of the sexual power
of a small man
with a small brain.
This sordid man
with his sordid mind
would watch them pass
with a perverse addiction
to the lobby window
which slowly steamed
as he heavily breathed.
He would watch
with glee as they passed
with nothing to do
but imagine.
This man had nothing
but his imagination.
What a sick image.
To bring this to a close
with as little in the way of graphic information
we could say he took this too far
with honest regret
the man stopped soon after
locked up for the pain he caused.
What a sick little man.
This controversial picture
will only be controversial to those
with the purest of minds
and of course
no-one is pure.
If He's there, He too knows He isn't pure
or He wouldn't sit and watch this.
Life
From the womb to the worm,
in an uncracked nutshell,
deciphering the point
of living in our world.
From the womb to the worm,
not much to live for,
seeing what we gave
and wanting it back.
From the womb to the worm,
from the warmth to the cold,
thats where were headed
and its a one way street.
Social Stalkers
(what you don't know...)
You've got demons watching you,
and you don't know it yet.
They've tapped into your phone calls,
and you don't know it yet.
If you ever find out,
don't let them know.
They'll break your heart
with a cold stone hammer
and you'll feel like death.
So cold to touch,
and they'll be watching.
Lucky you don't know yet.
They feed on your thoughts.
Glad you don't know yet.
Deadly cold, social stalkers,
they walk among us
but you don't know it yet.
I don't know it yet.
I don't want to know.
I'm glad I don't.
They'll make me feel like death.
So cold to touch.
Don't let them know.
My World
The world regrets the day I left,
or it would,
if it were still real.
If I can't see it,
it can't be there.
Rational? Probably not,
but there's always that nagging thought,
that when I'm not here
then neither are you,
neither are they.
Nobody. Nothing.
This is my world,
If I'm not here,
then neither are you.
Irrational? Probably,
but if you believe that,
you'll believe anything.
All seeing evil
Don't play games past midnight,
it'll fuck the christian ways.
The crime you commit,
will get you in shit
and there's no way out again.
Don't play games past midnight,
they'll know you have, and come.
The pain you submit,
only gets you in shit
and you get fucked up inside.
Don't play games past midnight,
it's a dangerous game to play.
The mess that you make,
is a fucking mistake
and you'll be shut up again.
Don't play games past midnight,
the prophesy comes true.
Don't play games past midnight,
or the devil will ride with you.
Don't play games past midnight,
it'll only mess with your head.
Don't play games past midnight,
you'll end up fucking dead.
There's a moral inside,
that you just can't hide.
You're fucked, you're shit.
You're dead.
That man had a
turning point (Hyprocritical, I know)
That man ain't the same,
his hollowed out eyes
and his mis-shapen face.
Isn't it a shame,
with his crooked spine
and his broken arms.
Too much to take,
that pain was hell.
Heaven to others.
Let the soul seep out,
let the man free.
He's all broken up,
he's just not the same
with his dis-jointed hip,
with his buried legs
snapped back by the bomb,
the thump, thump, thump
as the bombardment came down.
With that thud, thud, thud
on the contact place.
Oh, what a hellish place
that was.
Still is.
No sympathy is needed,
he won't want that now.
No sorrow, no tears shed,
he's sick of it now,
he's free, via hell,
hell on earth.
Seemed to him; hell was earth.
It was. For him.
For the others that died.
For the families who cried
their tears of sorrow,
that he was so sick off,
sick to his burst, split stomach,
sick through his whole srambled body.
Sick of the hell they put him through.
That war. That wrathful war.
That evil deafening silence
before the smash, smash, smash.
Now the turning point...
He knew he wouldn't make it,
so feel no sorrow,
no sympathy at all.
He started this war,
through his own greed,
as with you all,
as with everyone.
Hypocritical, I know.
Feel no hatred,
for he doesn't want that now,
he's had it,
he *felt* it,
that hatred he created.
You may have loved this man,
you may even know his name,
you may have never seen him
but be sure, he's been there.
Lurking in the corners
as the greed built up,
and it built.
Hell, it built.
You'r just part of this equation,
as we all are, every one,
while this hatred builds inside you,
before you've even heard the facts.
Hyprocritical, I know.
Now he's waiting for your fear,
the last emotion that he drinks,
because the prophesy continues,
because the prophesy goes on.
Hell will pay for this prophesy,
as it has before,
Hell will pay for this prophesy,
because Hell is on Earth.
Hell *is* Earth.
He never knew the greed he raised.
Don't hate the man.
Forgotten Years
Take me down to raging waters
to see the drowned look in her eyes,
as she shivers across the sandy shore
to see me, after all these years.
The girl is'nt there anymore.
It's just another dream.
Another dream of the times we had,
another time, from the forgotten years.
No peace without
war
Peace on a knife edge.
back stabbing, blood shedding
peace.
Never knew where it came from
peace.
Never feel your life again
peace.
Never take revenge again
peace.
Walk amongst the dead again
peace.
Peace on a knife edge.
Hate tracking, grudge solving
peace.
Feel the pain inside you
peace.
Fucking up life for
peace.
Want to take revenge
your peace.
Walk amongst the dead
no peace.
Peace on a knife edge.
Fucked up, kill life
peace.
Soul wrecking, bone breaking
peace.
No life, good life
peace.
Need to take revenge, can't,
peace.
Walk amongst the dead
feel peace.
