The thing was he had a reason. The night was cold and empty, just as he felt. There weren't any open doors or free bags of powdered kisses from God. The heroin has him in its bliss, and he likes to hide in the night. There weren't any track marks on his arms. Just like his serious lack of making some of his own.
He got off the back porch when he heard the noise that he waited for. The sickness can make the best man do the worst things, even when his consciousness tells him otherwise. When they left he took the dog out back and cut it up like a prime rib.
The days and years of searching. The world as it passed. His lack of acceptance. Not the being part, the knowing was hard to face. He once had to shower with a hose. When that little crazy girl that liked him put them up in the shed. Suicide or shower? That was the question that kept you up long enough to deal with the cold. He awoke sitting up in his underwear and her surprised fathers face. Dad wasn't mean, but he kick them out anyway.
As he left her next to the mad dad to curl up in his t-shirt somewhere, the cold followed closely by the focus of its source.Those were the mornings of a child, which were the first clues as to what he would become.
Now the good cutter of dogs wasn't alone and he knew it. He wasn't alone on the porch or when the hose was cold, but he cleaned his butt anyway. No he was never alone. He found out about the whole unbelievable mess in a crack hotel. How the voices kept it up and he really did walk in a car dealership expecting to drive out with just his mind. The T.V. told him so.
The only difference being, back then he didn't know that the weight of this cold world rest on the same shoulders he carries the gorilla called Godsmack.
The World of Darkness. The Crooked Realm. They had to follow him. To see when he found out what he really is. They wanted him to be the dumb human he was taught to be. Not the light of a darkened world. Negative forces were at work in the sheds of hell and he slept till the joggers woke him completely oblivious in his T-shirt nap. The Cold was waiting to give him the chills.
The signs were there. No family or bed or home or room or poster or wall to put one on, even if you love the Bruins. He never knew of love, and a dog never taught him how to care. His homeless birth gave way to the lessons of the life that would be responsible for everyone and everything. He was the Light and he loved to kill your dogs.
He hated to know how his needs pale in comparison to the needs a lost world. To know that all is not as advertised. He knows that he has to be as selfless as God said he should be. To know your choices indirectly influenced the flows of creation and life as a whole was not cool to a dopefeind.
As a young boy he once found his moms cocaine stash and music found him. The same house she broke a broom over his head. The boy that cried way too easily, and burn rats to a crisp from the clothes line. Who kicked the cat around his house till the shit had to be cleaned off the walls and the poor dead thing was stashed away in someone else's dumpster. The same boy that somehow made it through the Wringer of Pain. That bears the burden of the world's ignorance.
The world has never seen the likes of him. He doesn't even like the likes of him. So he cares to not care. Because he is very stubbornly motivated.
The people who wept over the prime rib dog were the ones that he felt like bothering. When he stole the mail and burn down the family business he was just getting started. He took it upon himself to be filled with all the loathing and resentment one needed to do the next dirty deed. But the problem was he had all the reason...
He got off the back porch when he heard the noise that he waited for. The sickness can make the best man do the worst things, even when his consciousness tells him otherwise. When they left he took the dog out back and cut it up like a prime rib.
The days and years of searching. The world as it passed. His lack of acceptance. Not the being part, the knowing was hard to face. He once had to shower with a hose. When that little crazy girl that liked him put them up in the shed. Suicide or shower? That was the question that kept you up long enough to deal with the cold. He awoke sitting up in his underwear and her surprised fathers face. Dad wasn't mean, but he kick them out anyway.
As he left her next to the mad dad to curl up in his t-shirt somewhere, the cold followed closely by the focus of its source.Those were the mornings of a child, which were the first clues as to what he would become.
Now the good cutter of dogs wasn't alone and he knew it. He wasn't alone on the porch or when the hose was cold, but he cleaned his butt anyway. No he was never alone. He found out about the whole unbelievable mess in a crack hotel. How the voices kept it up and he really did walk in a car dealership expecting to drive out with just his mind. The T.V. told him so.
The only difference being, back then he didn't know that the weight of this cold world rest on the same shoulders he carries the gorilla called Godsmack.
The World of Darkness. The Crooked Realm. They had to follow him. To see when he found out what he really is. They wanted him to be the dumb human he was taught to be. Not the light of a darkened world. Negative forces were at work in the sheds of hell and he slept till the joggers woke him completely oblivious in his T-shirt nap. The Cold was waiting to give him the chills.
The signs were there. No family or bed or home or room or poster or wall to put one on, even if you love the Bruins. He never knew of love, and a dog never taught him how to care. His homeless birth gave way to the lessons of the life that would be responsible for everyone and everything. He was the Light and he loved to kill your dogs.
He hated to know how his needs pale in comparison to the needs a lost world. To know that all is not as advertised. He knows that he has to be as selfless as God said he should be. To know your choices indirectly influenced the flows of creation and life as a whole was not cool to a dopefeind.
As a young boy he once found his moms cocaine stash and music found him. The same house she broke a broom over his head. The boy that cried way too easily, and burn rats to a crisp from the clothes line. Who kicked the cat around his house till the shit had to be cleaned off the walls and the poor dead thing was stashed away in someone else's dumpster. The same boy that somehow made it through the Wringer of Pain. That bears the burden of the world's ignorance.
The world has never seen the likes of him. He doesn't even like the likes of him. So he cares to not care. Because he is very stubbornly motivated.
The people who wept over the prime rib dog were the ones that he felt like bothering. When he stole the mail and burn down the family business he was just getting started. He took it upon himself to be filled with all the loathing and resentment one needed to do the next dirty deed. But the problem was he had all the reason...
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