Son, Burn

Covered by the blood yet still bleeding

Compelled to inhale; shamed for breathing

Drown! O, mistake I created

Compelled to ponder; taught to hate it

Disciple of failure, follow my word

I demand you ascend to elevations absurd

The dust on my boots, so easy you turn

To the rot in my roots: son, burn

Probably Not

I send my thoughts to space to spin until they're sick
When they return they are always so tired, and burnt to a crisp
There is no cure for the disease I pretend I have
Besides of course the cured I could pretend to be

She doesn't think about me
Does she?

My thoughts escape before I can tell them not to exist
I just can't get my hands around their god damn necks
So I write them down and burry them deep in the dirt
One day, when they are found, the truth will be free

She doesn't think about me
Does she?