A disturbed man
When my heart stops beating,
When my soul stops feeling
And my hands stop writing, painting and working,
When my body is thrown and abandoned in the coffin,
When the ashes of sorrow and regret are traveling the world,
When this disturbia-paranoia is shut and locked in the personal hell,
When suicide is a prayer,
When it hurts... and hurts no longer
The voice of madness, the song of despair.
One disturbed soul shut and shot,
One glass of disturbed ashes down the throat of the liars.
It goes and flows.
Imperfect words.
Imperfect steps.
You know me, dearest, and I have draw you:
The image of that man in the train,
Your image, naked in front of me
Through the technology of days:
Both of you, a single one,
A single portrait.
Now the silence:
The broken glass rips the fragile skin
And the dark and bitter blood flows free.
In my dreams, you and I are hanging in the tree,
I am your lover, your perfect lover,
I am your kiss of despair,
And you're always the feeling of despair,
Dark cars passing by
Terrifying me in the dsrkest nights.
The black birds howl their songs of death,
The dead walk the streets,
And dance,
And sing,
And laugh,
And they call my name.
The black birds keep howling their song
That it seems they're calling my name!
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