A hurt from such a rift causes my soul to bleed; bandages cannot repress
Social anxiety, misgivings, and confusion; poor mans shoes
Die with your holy preacher man pointing fingers at the victimized
We are all to blame, says she, but you shall suffer
Rote killed the carpenter, rote riddled the masses
Smite kept the homeless alive fighting keystones and matchbooks
Desire put your holiday panicking over dark and fuming holes
But your money bought you pain that your doctor couldn’t heal
This has shaped your soul into puppets you cannot identify
Sleepless in your figure, shapeless while you work
Amongst your goblets and amulets
Hurt by your call to society you’ve never represented