12thCenturyFox

It had taken two years for the doctor to unearth the hole, lying in wait in my heart. And from this pinhole well, gushed a foretelling of the manner which the heart, at times, bleeds right out of me beneath brave smiles, and beyond the wincing eyes of strangers, primed for a polite ambush. Next year I may turn twenty. Not the milestone that most would celebrate, but a landmark nonetheless; should I be condemned to a life as its squatter. Each year becomes harder to honour And this time, I've grown the authority to see it an archaic, futile chore. When that morning shone into the kitchen, I placed thirteen candles on my birthd

Well my nostrils have become all blown out And my heart's been broken in two too many times 'cause I am just a waste of pity, hoarding goodwill off the city And I spent all my money on a change of dimes. The cracks on the sidewalk fade and re-split on the side of my face. And if I had any grace, I'd step up and right out of this place. Oh, the devil flicked my switch at light speed, Then he blessed me in fumes, and then set me to flames. When I was on the battleship, catapulting lip, I was cast away, trepidation which could never be feigned. It left a wound on my scars, as deep and as far as the underground lakes. I began to shrive