My noose is a liar,
Resting below a cloudy and minuteness sky;
And preach to a crowd of the same description
I'm stuck in an empty closet with no windows,
Just the illusion of one.
There are no pictures on the walls,
But there was at one time;
And most importantly there are no doors,
So i cannot leave.
When it rains my closet is flooded and I'm left floating aimlessly
Until the water seeps through the cracks.
I've never had a reason to leave so its never been a test for me.
Until this bitter, ugly, moment;
When i look back i remember other people being in here with me,
I wasn't so afraid then;
Unlike me, however, they, had to leave.
It wasn't just a test for them ,
It was necessity.
I've built myself on the thought that i never truly envied those people,
That i never really wanted the ambition.
But if i had, i could have left with them and prosper.
But underneath that, i know what i am,
Fxxking frail.
I'm a prophet in fools clothing,
A virgin, a hore,
A worm that manifests on itself.
I'm the greatest high and the most inevitable low
You can take me, have me, rapee me, fxxk me,
And in the end you can just leave.
Because i don't mind being that little mechanism in your head that provides comfort.
And i don't mind being the maggot that grows in your conscious;
And forces you to go.
I've been that forever.
Until this bitter, ugly, moment.
I needed gasoline so i found some
I lit a match and burnt this closet to the ground.
Everything i ever was, or wasn't, is now gone.
Ashes are blowing in every direction.
Its the blackest rain i will ever experience,
And soon enough it will be the brightest most beautiful morning i could ever ask for.
The embers find themselves resting in familiar places,
The people that left me are in fact my neighbors,
And what i use to be, has now burnt them to ashes.
Morning is now the flame of yesterday as mascara runs Dry and these faces burn honest.
Now the prophet is before,
The virgin is the hore,
The leech is no longer,
And the worm is every one of us.
There is no high because we are all so low.
The rule of thumb, apposed to everything,
Is now the rule of laws built on nothing at all
They call this imperfection, and that is perfect to me.
