I make skeleton raps, and try and fuel my gas lamp, here what I say before the sky turns black, let's sit around the camp fire, so I can share these stories, I'm just a head blown
Back, a waste of breath for fame and glory, Marv Albert is a vampire, and I just fell from grace, yo the creature smells sarcasm, how I love the taste, I want to be a statue, I
Can feel it in my fingers, translucence's just a dream, in subtle thoughts where the broken linger, I can hardly keep the head still, we fight in dieing light, I am winter in a
Stand still, we know no wrong or right, I'm just a bastards kiss from a wounded eye lash, I feel the belly slowly split, watch the shadows turn and crash, I live like water
Killing canvas, I want to be your pastels, the very last paint brush, in your own private hell, shes a ghost still breathing, with the syndrome playing along, Stendhal scars the
Face, turning hair from black to blond
I can feel my heart shatter, watch the world get the best of me, a shadow turned statue, watch the art come alive (4x)
She says she fears life, and only lusts for loving death, I am everywhere she looks forever buried in sunken steps, and now she stumbles through the streets, and now she cries
Every night, cause the statues never speak, but there eyes keep feeding lies, I want to kill a masterpiece, and turn my head into splinters, erase all the worlds art, a desperate
Plot of wasted sinners, I am the ink who spread the plagues, and made the canvas come to life, the birds of all the humble dreams, illumination filling strife, I'm a costume
Blowing kisses, the paint of all so little faith, I want to be your esil, the wings on a dieing saint, we can taunt the creature, with yellow rockets shooting stars, dressed in
Paper thin lines, please help me kill them all, I can feel her chest, and now she's gone and breathing heavy, a kind of art made of death, cut the lose of caustic petting
I got an elephant heart that tastes like ambrosia, hot razors stain the cheek, shes lost composure, they call me Casanova Frankenstein, I'm always walking pretty, I where a crown
Full of thorns, even in my sunken city, she wears an angel on her belly, in hopes the art will never see her, but these walls have eyes in the mouth of fathers theater, the
Candle light starts to flicker, and now shes broken to the bone, let's watch the paintings come to life in the Stendhal syndrome