A thing of a terrible past.

Shame, running from the faucets
Of rusty sinks. I spash my face with it
I'm trained to forget my feelings
And forced into a harsh, distorted body
I miss the feeling of country roads
With the wind in my face as we speed along
In a pick-up truck completely covered
With the dirt of the thriving countryside.

At the end of the day my life is cleansed
With the blood of the devil and the wine of saints.

And I cringe at the thought of you.
If you could see who I am at this very moment
I have no doubt that you'd be ashamed.
Because every time that you look at me
You have to come to the understanding that I...
I am your monster. I am your masterpiece.
As I lay here under the dim lights awaiting
Dissection, I'm singing your siren song.

Because it's all that I know anymore.
In a state of disrepair, and so alone.

The problem arises not recently
But is a thing of a terrible past.