Waste
Whispering Sons
Fragile figure
Don’t speak
The texture of your words
Tortures me
Deep blue desert
Desperate idea
The pleasure of her touch
Tortures me
Surging blood
Boiling streets
The pressure of my thoughts
Tortures me
I can’t see
I can’t see
I won’t accept
Except my own ideas
It’s a perversity
That’s slowly
Spiraling down in me
Fragile figure
I want to make you scream
The texture of your cries
Pleasures me
I can’t see
I can’t see
I won’t accept
Except my own ideas
It’s a perversity
That’s slowly
Spiraling down in me
It’s a perversity
I don’t know if I care