People should not have been created; so perfectionistic, sounding so pinched, so distant from emotion.
There's not much of that, now, out here, where every form of solitude is flawed, Faithless.
There is a pulse— And what’s behind is no longer tangible.
"You can be what you desire," Doubt utters From your lips But its wicked mouth is that Of a different language
When you face forgetful grief You should teach it not to Rain on you, And soak you in sorrow