Intent


The twisted arm of your intent
Relentlessly leading me astray
The reclamation of a soul once free
Now buried below, lost to decay

I want to watch the world burn
Surrendering to misanthropy
A plague we are upon the earth
This thing we call humanity

It’s not freedom we have
But chains in which we are bound
Answers to questions we never asked
Looking at the sky but tied to the ground

It’s not hope or peace we want
Just an escape from the daily bore
Say your prayers on a Sunday
Because on Monday you’re a whore

I’ll take every digit
As a wicked souvenir
I’ll pretend that I was a nothing
And that we were never here

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