nave

I got a guy in my head telling me that I'm crazy. Got a guy in my head saying that I'm crazy. An angry little guy punching on my skull. Another little guy tells me that I'm lazy; a useless piece of shit with no love to give at all. And now the smallest guy up there thinks that I'm the greatest, tells me no one else could be as good as me. I listen to them all. I was a disc jockey to consequences, little propagandist selling misery. I built a cocoon; I built it to get away. A shirt made out of wood and glue and crack and then some paint. No one sees me down there and no one's getting in. I got a needle, a pack, a satchel, and a quart of country gin. I drink and shoot and smoke until the only voice I hear, is the one telling me those other people don't let anyone near.
No don't let anybody near.

And now the telephone is ringing, the walls are falling down. The sea birds are singing, my soul's nowhere around. I have made myself a monster, I have damned myself again. I have eaten all my children. I have tightened up my skin.
I'm a walking crucifixion. I'm a fucked-up memory. Consumed in all that's left, I'm my mother's misery. I'm sucking on Satan's tit, shes milking me her poison
flow. I drink until I'm convinced there's no place left to go.
You know there's no place left to go.

So I drink until the pain is dry. I know it never is. Sometimes though, I guess I think that I'm the best. Until the morning after when I wake up with the guilt of burning down all the things my sacred hands have built. And throwing out all the love you know I never felt.
Yeah, you know I never felt.

Let's make our tortured Romeo's. Personal help can be unique. You bring it on yourself. Burn out when you might peak. The Holy Ghost is exiled from your heart and from your soul. If you control it it's no fun, and if it's fun you've lost control. Your past is plagiarism. Your symbols have dried up. Your corruption's as confused as old lovers that you dug. Like some hidden toxic fume, your soul dissipates in the ozone of guilty acts eroded by all the things you hate.
There's bodies dancing, crazed. Sexual heat. Crazy in an orgy like the way starving people eat. Regrets weight overwhelms, and tired bodies fall. Bankrupt from the beaten, let's split one more eight-ball. Blue as beggars, beaten, bleeding, tired eyes made of rust. And we all know when it gets like this there's no one you can trust.
No, no there's no one you can trust.

Some say the solutions locked in the sweat-box. I wouldn't know. I've never been there; I sold my keys to get a rock. We sing along to forgotten AM radio stations and drink expensive wine. Toast the friends that we left hanging like prisoners in conceit. We heard through the cracks. I know for sure don't trust no one who says' they've got you back. The windows all explode, outside the noise pollution booms. Everyone's now hidden like cockroaches in dark rooms.
I've been brought back from the dead before, so anything can happen. Obsessed with tragic antics, down and out like Eric Clapton. These are my wild years; Im trying to enjoy the pain. The euphoria of dying. Toxins wrestle in my brain. We've all been leaders of corruption. We've all been spiders on the wall waiting for a hand to smash us or the doom of light to fall.
Is this guilt of just self-hatred, runnin' wild, uncontained? Leaking from a broken soul, Is this creation or a stain?
Is this creation or a stain?

Creation or a Stain by Joseph Arthur