The Bed You'll Die In
Set the temperature to rush And release the heat of complications Intravenous pupply love Hangs like a light to ease your bleeding Forty proof immunity has dried your swollen veins, Where the pulse of humiliation Collides with the persistence of defeat. Rusted scalples pierce your patience, The blood dances on the floor. Communication's needless in your body's dank decor. They'll watch you while you're sleeping To keep pins of hope set in your skin, With silent screaming in their eyes They'll be sure to rub it in. The touch of your mothers hand feels cheaper Than her nylon finger nails. Disgust's replaced concern, Her brimstone heart's controlled by lack of caring, When growing deep inside of you is the consequence Of sin, her grin, reminds you that the excess steps Of ignorance have guided you to the bed you lie in, And so your mother watches eagarly as it's going To be the bed you'll die in.Written November 13th, 2001 © on Nov 12 2001 04:07 PM PST other
AI analysis available. Enable JavaScript to interact.
About this line
"Set the temperature to rush ..."