Cynic
 

We arrive at these days in the unkindest of ways,
'Mind your mistakes', rhymes, but just a meaningless phrase,
Demon's this phase run way deeper than brains,
Lepers, disgraced, livin but still leechin' in ways.
We're heaped with some praise, it maybe defeats some these strains,
Of empty complaints, traced in these meaningless veins.
But we reeling, the One gaze sees us mainly falling from grace,
Call it disgrace. But I don't really rate what he says.
Cause I see it myself, what's left? the hollow remains,
Of some bothered, dismayed lyricists tryina relate.
Find us some space, open as wounds that we make,
We could do with a plain stained with the ooze from these brains.
Effects that we fake, deprived of a part, now we fast,
See a skeptic's just a lover whose heart's been killed in the past.
The art is our path, where the soul can hurt freely,
Don't get me? ..... well I don't need the fuckin herd. Really.
This stake's with me. When they turn quickly. I'm finished.
I burn crisply .. and it's hate creates a cynic.