Ill be your little liar, your smallest secret yet
Why dont you like me? Why do you hate me?
Your biggest problem lies within the very-darkest sea
I feel hated, I feel hurtful, and maybe just a little ironic
Ive got an opportunity to turn my will against you
Im tired of all the names that you always pin on me
The taunting and the killings and every last time I fall
After my comrades and I have all been slain
Youre there, looking over the cliffs at me, always
Always, always, always, you stare heartlessly at me
Your dull eyes hurt me more than every single name
You dont care if I get injured, or if
School's just a bunch of numbers gathered to make you look good.
I remember better days before these empty hours wasted here.
Nobody can understand the poet better than the writer;
but the poet himself does not know the writer's modus operandi.
Those who have made friends with death long enough to recognize him
see both poet and writer understood at last in the grave's yawning mouth.
The music of the bewitcher draws empty sighs from listeners everywhere,
lifting their chains to dance in time to the music.
The timeless melodies and harmonic notes seem to flutter like so much confetti,
like grabbing a handful of dust from broken china