minssi

My brain is sick. It only thinks of twisted things. Like how we burn our eyes out, And we rip our wings. And then we sit in the dark, Staring blankly at each other. Our eye-sockets bleeding, On a wounded brother. Then we kneel down, Praying to the sun. Hoping things get brighter; But we don't know what we've done! We take our tongues out, We scar them with razors. Spitting every blade Across other people's faces. And if you start feeling, My words are getting dark; I'm just painting pictures But you are making them stark! And now you feel dead; Surreal in your mind. So listen to this preacher, From the land of the blind.