Suffering Bastard کے بول

Shorn of apocryphal pride, the locks fall, predicting strife. Cranium exposed, denial of aesthetic. Push it a little farther, all of this into ashes, all of this torn to rags. I don't know what the fuck have I become? Synapses snapping. Mortality decimated. Breakdown, whiskey shifts hate into overdrive. Realizing it's murder of the self so clean. I don't know what the fuck have I become? Hand reaching out, desecrates impunity. Ripping away foundation's identity, replacing with shame. Transgressions mythologized, indiscretions immortalized. Anger inflamed with dry rot, pushing towards severance. What a bloody mess. Visit dark sites unknown, grief lands like a ton of bricks. All of this burnt to ashes, all of this torn to rags…