fuck these misbegotten bones. i feel like i'm lying in my own desecrated graveyard every time i hit the sheets. like basically good charlotte is headlining at my sex pistols tribute concert. speaking of dead, of course johnny cash was the original gunslinger- i wouldn't have a big iron on my hip if it weren't standard on the man in black uniform. he was the fisher king, when his time came.
every chair another broken throne. forget these slumped shoulders. i temper steel with starlight. when i quench blades they comes out dark as a whisper. hungry for the life of orion's belt. that w of cassopia a line of stitches across the hole i tore in the sky. lets see your sack cloth gown before you come any closer. current cassius: lean & hungry. show me your kings so i may devour them. show me your hands & your gallows. press me to walls outside of bars.
i'm sick of everyone wasting perfectly good pumpkins on magic carriages. carve them faces & set candles within their hollowed heads. arm them with pitchforks. arm them with anything. arm everyone. or as i like to say. "i'll kill her. i'll kill you. i'll kill everyone. i like to say that. alot. under my breath. like a mantra. like it is the fucking iron lung keeping me alive. i'll fucking kill you. i'll fucking kill everyone.