lavamaughnster (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} lavamaughnster) wrote,@ 2007-11-30 01:21:00 |
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Clove Clutch
Filtered fingers stop the disbeliever
From breathing in his death.
His eyes are shot,
As he asks "What is left?"
Firing his mind in to his notebook like a glock
Teeth bite the barrel,
And his throat's singed with venom.
He knows he's better off offed.
His awareness takes every breath as sharp as an arrow.
Life disintigrates in to a haze of vanilla clove coughs.
Spare him the ears of anyone who claims to care.
He's tired of choosing to lose
The femme fatale's truth or dare.
Hand the man a noose.
Scoot the man a chair.
Sentence him to death.
Hang the fool,
Right there.
His lies fill the air
Like the roar of a bear.
All that's left
Is the scent of despair,
Circulating through the vents,
Like the Lord's ubiquitous stare.
Filtered fingers stop the disbeliever
From breathing in his death.
His eyes are shot,
As he asks "What is left?"
Firing his mind in to his notebook like a glock
Teeth bite the barrel,
And his throat's singed with venom.
He knows he's better off offed.
His awareness takes every breath as sharp as an arrow.
Life disintigrates in to a haze of vanilla clove coughs.
Spare him the ears of anyone who claims to care.
He's tired of choosing to lose
The femme fatale's truth or dare.
Hand the man a noose.
Scoot the man a chair.
Sentence him to death.
Hang the fool,
Right there.
His lies fill the air
Like the roar of a bear.
All that's left
Is the scent of despair,
Circulating through the vents,
Like the Lord's ubiquitous stare.
