I fail many timesLife aint no fascinationSometimes these imperfectionsAre more than mere learning lessons A bleeding wound perhaps a stingInside my head whose venome singsThe screeching sound creates a throeBut the slain glass is in pain no more A toast of blood raise high in lustToo hot to drink, neverthelessFill some more, it digress the painAnd let a fire burn all the filth and blame Broken, trodden, sanity insaneThis human nature is painful and arcaneFor...
