Cut by the knife of pure endorphins
Barely hanging on like a loose doorhinge
Assisting the suicide; Jack Kevorkian
There my mind goes back and forth again.
Counting the sheep as they're sent to the slaughter,
praying for the rain in days with no water,
A slave to the pain in a state of pure saunder,
Unable to relate so his thoughts they go wander
And half of the time his thoughts are under water,
half of his mind long gone, cannon fodder,
back of the line he was sent, never bothered anybody until the day he couldn't take it any longer.
An assortment of razors machetes and boxcutters,
Post partum abortions, the way that I caught mothers,
a wave of these cops couldn't stop the genocide
they’ll die along anyone invading my thought bubble,
and I wouldn't call it tripping I'm collecting these victims
Place them in submission with assistive restrictions,
the seconds are ticking to hours or minutes, nobody ever knows in the conditions they live in,
Creator of a world manifesting in death
entrails decorate the walls caked in flesh,
in a pitch black room of disease ridden screams,
or is this just another one of his dreams?