Tuesday, September 28, 2010
One, Two, Three.
On your high horse of satisfaction
Lies and spies
Men crying at your feet.
Begging you for sweet mercy
upon their 'Love struck' souls.
And you find pleasure in it.
In carrying on like you own the world.
Nose strung high in the air.
Lips curled into a vicious smile.
You own them.
they do not know that you own the other.
You ask me to lie for you.
And it makes me sick.
Because it is against me.
I am doing the bidding of the devil
I have no control over the venom
that is taking over.
That is you.