Friday, August 17, 2007


There are clear dreams in your eyes
But they all turn out to be lies
What you thought ago was wrong
What you thought you had won

They mutilate so you change
Or your mind becomes deranged
There's a suction pump on your head
Which pulls away until you are dead

Thinking is a punishable offense
And so is many times of making sense
And all your ideas are made to shrink
While you are pushed to the brink

What use, if any, is this living
To be like a pulp, a shapeless giving
I wish someone gives me an ax
I wish to chop away at the clacks

I want no part of this rat race
I want to get out of this place
I am brittle now see my cracks
Cause I know I am not what lacks