Above my stomach.
Under my chest.
This gut wrench is here to stay.
But I’ve got a few dollars down that says your a liar.
And your conscience doesn’t exist.

I’m a hired gun with a broken trigger.
A poet with a twisted wrist for dangling fingers.
As graceful as I can aim to be.
I’m still posed to displease.
but I could only ever displease you, disease you.
You’ve cleaned my touch from your hand.
You’ve rinsed my will, and up even in the worst evenings where trees held the moon.
Your face was the brightest in this worlds room.
But you’re still as dirty as they come.
The worst part of your get better’s over.
My worst has just begun.

I still ask the same questions.
But you’re not here to answer them.
And the walls don’t listen.
The ground’s just a shoulder to lean on.
Cause I’ve got nothing else.

A pestering trouble in falling asleep.
Maybe that’s the catalyst to this relapse and retreat.
I’ll lie down now.

I’ll lie under.

I’ll lie over.

Liar, I’ll lie.

So take that guilt, toss it out like you never have.
And you’ll move on through the day as if it were a precursor to rehearse your brand new kill.
But I can’t even find my own end.

Your eager movement underneath the sheet of my barrage of innocent questions is all too apparent, all too staged.
If I’m not worthy of your time, of your honesty.
If I’m not worthy of someone’s decency, let me leave you be.
I’ll be the burden of another fragile foundation of one’s heart and mind.
No one’s ever going to love you like I did.
No one’s ever getting under my skin.
Snare your fingers in rhythm to my pulse.
Circulation starts.
Honesty stops.
I’ll paint the most beautiful of landscapes with a vivid word.
But you won’t ever read that verse.
I’ll carve out the most magnificent wall of sound to resonate within your wealth of fear and worry.
But you won’t ever hear.
And you won’t ever be sorry.
I’ll make myself guilty for someone else.
Last edited by Coheed777 at Jul 5, 2010,