passion underlies my thoughts
pounding pulsing putting
me into compromising situations
hard to worm out using claws
cos charms don't work no more
the bat of pretty lashes is petty
cos the masses aren't amused
they're tired of the abuse
the bruises the hues of black and blues
and my bloody smiles
funny how full of shit you can become
and not feel it happening
and not smell anything
I'm fucking wasted
and now I have to pick up everything
I trashed to rearrange and reconstruct
the part of me that was always fucked
but never sober
enough to realize or recall the rise and fall
the point of it all