| Tons of blood swallowed before nausea.
|
| Finally I’ve learned from frustration.
|
| My isolation, I’m forced to hide,
|
| while you’re observing.
|
| But you mean nothing, now you’re useless.
|
| Time of my reprisal,
|
| for you’re nothing, weightless scumbag, weightless scumbag.
|
| Peel slowly and see a new dimension of my reprisal.
|
| Become now the feeding flesh, the holy spirit of my own frustration.
|
| Naked knife absolution.
|
| I’ve burnt the altar you caught me in.
|
| I’m a restless machine.
|
| Tasting with nausea,
|
| reaching for relief in a bulimic state.
|
| Irony of the torture machine.
|
| You’re naked in front of my screen.
|
| You’re the food on the edge of my knife.
|
| A shining knife reflecting a deranged smile.
|
| Handling the blade that I won’t bleed.
|
| Inexorable awareness of misery.
|
| Shall I reach that forgotten relief?
|
| I cross my path of torment
|
| while I’m tearing you limb from limb.
|
| Sickening infection.
|
| Path made of frustration.
|
| Experiment the torture.
|
| Naked knife absolution.
|
| Naked knife absolution. |