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I see in your eyes the unborn mind,
The devil's contract, still yet to be signed...
Bow ye down, before your god,
The shattered cross which groans, doth nod.
How so callow, not only sallow that you should hallow he...
Cold hands reach forth, you beckon me...
Into your emptiness, your shallow sea.
And god looks down, in no way is he pleased.
Swallow your gallow, and let it free.
Why should you care? Your third eye is blind...
Melanous be your soul, but so is mine.
im a very poetic person, myself. i just never write shit down.
ok seriously you need to be selling these things man. just write a book of poems and i promise ill buy it
Dull it down, kick its arse,ingest the vitamin C,don`t let on your on your own. Only the purple people are aware of the loonies up Loona Land , doin somersaults an landing on their heads. Taste the bark of the Pinneys, smell the fire from the darkness, watch the bats performing in the moonlight while the strange one feels strange and throats are dry because of it. Accidental blows from one bam to another making the start a finishing topic,been done to me and been done before the terms of the aggreement being non-negotiable and non-returnable. Twenty minutes and we were there, floating in the neon sea, gazing in windows at things only trained eyes can see. Been here too long , standing in my own private zoo, the pixels merge with my eye. Doing ever so well I ponder on my friends ,gazing on oblivious to the deterioration of my apparent success. They struggle to cope with the level I`ve reached so we pass to brighter more inviting worlds Black jackets turned white. I float on green lime,the spot in the distance an oasis from the extreme, a prison for the insane. All we want is to meet going the other way, but on we trapse, forever going forward, our shoes disappear from our feet. His disdain for another affecting our journey while my own affects mine. Reaching the paradise not, reassembling our minds to the nights lost promises we sit down. Fannies by lamplight that filters through the mind. The Kilbain runs our consciousness to check our subconscious but if your names not John then you`re not getting in. Only the knowledgeable few gain access for briefest of moments. The man with the plan spurs us on and the inspection continues. Into every nook and cranny, wall always on our right, we move on enthused and contented with our new vocation,stopping only , for things of interest. Check for the invisable plans. Papers flapping with the voices within, the picture comin closer. A toothy grin and nervous laughter, the Kilbain with some cunts daughter. Through skies of black and clouds of red the demons beckon us closer. Shall we dance in this ectopic frame, while others sink helpless into their grave, leering at the vanishing lightbulb,leaving others begging. The inexperienced floundering at the diversity. Tubes and potions won`t help them now .The morning will be their saviour. COME HERE! COME ON NOW! Who the fucks that? The graphics offer no clue to the obliviousness of our quarry. Our minds preoccupied with the relevence of our existence and its continuance .Gazing upon the disembodied, our eyes conjure what the mind sees. Like caged animals we withdraw from this quirk of the night to lick our tormented minds................Magic?