It is night again, And the darkness wakes it all up. Rooms left to collect, the dust of Fault and dissent, and the Forgotten madness of bygone days. We have created so much with nothing, And done nothing with so much. Are we all souls in repair? As the dream of ourselves staggers with the weight of our sins. We shuttle and store the shame of disgrace bled from veins of vice, and the echoes of error is an endless replay.
The conflict continues, while our power splinters and our dignity fragment. The Sullied Self will sink too fast to be saved. We mourn the death of innocence, the freedom of inexperience, and grieve for a time departed.
Are we damned by tales of our past and haunted by what we’ve done? Does it all fracture the sum of me, and who I’ve become? We are buried beneath the wreckage of ruin; Virtue charred black is the price paid for folly.
Am I forever condemned to call my differences broken parts of me? Do the grooves of my flaws rot the definition of me? Can I sweep the dark corners that reside within me? Or eternally doomed in hell, as the Sullied self?
It is night again, And the darkness wakes it all up. Rooms left to collect, the dust of Fault and dissent, and the Forgotten madness of bygone days. We have created so much with nothing, And done nothing with so
One may have lower IQ but his convincing capacity can make the listener lose a bit of his own IQ One may have higher IQ but lack of his self confidence can result in utter failure to convince the listener
Every night this body becomes a dissecting knife a crime scene of blood and unstrung flesh, the lamb spreads the wool for a deadly charge of skull plate with a gift of mathematics a moon cutout in sky before the