#mysound

Poor child, I pray that you’re breathing okay Deep under the covers where you hid today With a pair of scissors held tight to your back You lashed out to cut off that panic attack But it was your own nose that fell to the ground And metallic soda pop pooled at your toes Then drained from the carpet in red, bubbly rows Where candied claret goes, no killer knows. Mother always told you eyes on the prize Until you made the choice to cut away her lies With that same weapon you use on your inner thighs Constantly releasing pepsi, and euphonic sighs You want to lay down your head in that boneyard bed Sleeping on the tip of those decorative scissors of yours Because you never tell the truth and you don’t really think it sucks To be all coated and wrapped up in bedtime zombie snores. I see you from the bottom of the bridge, hair so messy with pride I guess I didn’t know that you wanted to be a zombie bride But you look like the greatest in your sickening style The next victim of peppermint disease looking for a brain doctor A new medicine for underlying undead thoughts Something to punch through this temperature inversion… Step by step you begin your immersion Into these pale systems; come search for your surgeon.