A parasite that lost it's appetite with what he calls his own being yours to clean for
Walk with a weapon and fight just to see what draws the line between the now and yesterday
Scenes from the past being premonitions all to real
We dwell like antique paintings older every day,
Until a thief steals you from the wall in the shadows of creative eclipses
I've noticed your handwriting improve over the years,
Though someimtes i still smell shit in the ink
I can't clean this stain of a little boy, and sadly i am trapped in here for good
Locked my door and read these cryptic pieces a hundred-thousand times more
For every sundown taht crutches the awake,
Simmering the need of peave and lightly seasoning our bodies back to bed
Aimless is the mind on porcelain piloows
And we dwell like antique paintings, older every day