Week 4 - Deadlion vs Plot - PLOT WINS, DEADLION DQ.

Dagel is a biter · 08-15-2013, 12:16 AM

Eternity is burning away, waves turning to spray,
shame swerving astray, but the pain's learning to stay.
I pray constantly for a miracle, a hero who won't fade,
or change to a mirror view of a ghost known to disgrace.
The gates open or closed -- they won't hold him in safe,
so don't blame the rose when it's petals slowly decay.
Lonely and in vain, show me a nightmare that's tamed,
name a creature with features drained; on a task so great.
Play a symphony that makes enemies into friends,
some strange things that create dreams in the end.
Pretend a bee sting intends to free me from a bend,
and mad scientists invent beasts to accompany them.
With the blinds down... my guide prowls blindly,
but I know him, so right now he's proud to keep fighting.

A freak on his leash, I tweak on this shit I speak,
creep as you sleep, eat children's visions and dreams.
Visit asylums, notebook and pen in both hands,
I copy each epiphany -- this is MY romance.

Glass plate or ash tray, either way my lungs create woe,
can't control this slacker phase; young, brave, and stoned.
Will I ever grow, nobody knows, but I pray someday I'll go
somewhere bare that glows, a place to stay and let love flow.
Step where I may untold, no rain or snow unless my brush shows,
if I touch a rose, it'll bloom in the same room 'til the dust blows.
A beauty without death, it's truly a step toward my immortal throne,
and if the boat sinks and my message fails to float...
guess I need a portal back home.
It doesn't bother me, slaughtering something really isn't obscene,
I'd plunge a rusted knife into a gut, combust like volcanic scenery.
If you ask, "what does art mean to me?"
I'll reply that it's a must, and start to grief.
A man with a brush isn't just an artist, let's start with 'martyr',
he stands with lust, and loves the darkness that charts his art work.
The longer it takes, the stronger he paints his self portrait,
thinks he's a monster, but thank God your too late to help orbit.

I combine life with fear, the light disappears,
define a time where clear skies were engineered.
With some color I'll cover your regrets and sorrow,
just give me a cigarette, here's to a fresh tomorrow.

Sometimes, we're inspired for no reason.

08-15-2013, 12:16 AM	#5
Dagel is a biter The Misfit Join Date: Apr 2013 Posts: 166 Battle Record: 0-1 Rep Power: 0	Eternity is burning away, waves turning to spray, shame swerving astray, but the pain's learning to stay. I pray constantly for a miracle, a hero who won't fade, or change to a mirror view of a ghost known to disgrace. The gates open or closed -- they won't hold him in safe, so don't blame the rose when it's petals slowly decay. Lonely and in vain, show me a nightmare that's tamed, name a creature with features drained; on a task so great. Play a symphony that makes enemies into friends, some strange things that create dreams in the end. Pretend a bee sting intends to free me from a bend, and mad scientists invent beasts to accompany them. With the blinds down... my guide prowls blindly, but I know him, so right now he's proud to keep fighting. A freak on his leash, I tweak on this shit I speak, creep as you sleep, eat children's visions and dreams. Visit asylums, notebook and pen in both hands, I copy each epiphany -- this is MY romance. Glass plate or ash tray, either way my lungs create woe, can't control this slacker phase; young, brave, and stoned. Will I ever grow, nobody knows, but I pray someday I'll go somewhere bare that glows, a place to stay and let love flow. Step where I may untold, no rain or snow unless my brush shows, if I touch a rose, it'll bloom in the same room 'til the dust blows. A beauty without death, it's truly a step toward my immortal throne, and if the boat sinks and my message fails to float... guess I need a portal back home. It doesn't bother me, slaughtering something really isn't obscene, I'd plunge a rusted knife into a gut, combust like volcanic scenery. If you ask, "what does art mean to me?" I'll reply that it's a must, and start to grief. A man with a brush isn't just an artist, let's start with 'martyr', he stands with lust, and loves the darkness that charts his art work. The longer it takes, the stronger he paints his self portrait, thinks he's a monster, but thank God your too late to help orbit. I combine life with fear, the light disappears, define a time where clear skies were engineered. With some color I'll cover your regrets and sorrow, just give me a cigarette, here's to a fresh tomorrow. Sometimes, we're inspired for no reason.