Guilt, like sandpaper grindsGuilt, like sandpaper grinds,It burns like salted wounds.Heavy, like lead on our minds,From escape, like chains it binds.Why confess when it's easier to lie,Each lie digs your grave deeper.Why confess now? Its easier to die,Your lies your prison's keeper."And the truth shall set your free"Truer words were never told.I'll pay penance over guilt gladly.Guilt will haunt you till yer dead 'n cold.Guilt like the barded arrow,Hurts the further it goes, till your heart it finds.By now escape is a pinhole, small an' narrow.Guilt, like sandpaper grinds.
I sail under a rotted flagI sail under a rotted flag,We pillage and plunder far and near.And when we've finished we throw away the swag,We are those that have been touched by the lotus tear.We sail the empty sea upon a ruined ship, the Crimson Hag.For we are beyond life, and short of death, sailing eternally,Our devotion to our mother, the sea, death cannot overtake.So in un-death we sail resolute in our quest to protect the sea,Those that sail under the naval flag, paint for our ship they'll make.I don't believe I've properly introduced myself, for that I apologize,I be the captain of the Hag, Red "The Riddler" Kintoba, memorize it.Ill tell you a riddle, bet it right, join my crew, wrong I pluck your eyes,What is the thing that stops your heart, numbs your brain and dries your spit?"Your breath" you say, that's rather funny, I like it, you're in boy,With that I draw from within my jacket, a black lotus, cold and dark.A single pedal is all I need, to your eyes I drip its foul blood, black as soy,
The mind is like a houseThe mind is like a house,Its filled with many, many doors.No one live there, not even a mouse,The only thing there is you, one behind each of the doors.All these doors are locked, and you have the keys,And each you behind the doors are different in personality.Once opened, the you possesses you to do as they please,Some are fine with doing as you say, some plan catastrophe.You decide how you feel about the people you meet,But some doors you never want to open, and the you knows that.They call to you, when your sad, and weak, sitting in the drivers seat,They can be convincing, when there are no more tricks in your hat.There is one voice, a cold and evil voice, that voice's name, is murder,It floats from the dungeon, from It's prison, where it should always stay.Once murder is let out, it's harder to put it back in its prison, and keep it there,Eventually, murder won't go back in it's cell, and it will finally have it's way.Then it sets out on a mission of disaster, it ai
I'm living in the cemeteryI'm living in the cemetery,Oh it's ever so nice,It's quiet but nice, not at all scary,It's perfectly clean, the rats eat the mice.People say the dead will come for me,I say that's all fine and dandy.They come once every Sunday for tea,On Halloween their children come for candy.I'm never bothered by salesmen or preachers,They never make it past row thirteen.Educations no problem, there's plenty of teachers,The dead are perfectly friendly, just don't scream.If you want to pop in for a visit that's no problem,Just follow the path and tell the dead "Ian sent for me".The dead protect me, and I protect them,I'm living in the cemetery.