Let her nails kiss the pale of your neck. I'm a wrecking machine; the first step to feeling.

It's that striking numbing sensation we all love. These ghosts are mine, screaming it's time.

I'm the quiet edge.
There's almost intent.
Please cure this deafness let me taste the worst.
Oh, it's not the world, it's just the way we twist our words.
Please cure this deafness, let me taste.

It moves in close...
Give me a reason why we should care when all we do is work. Giving time to sentiment could only make things worse.

Stop with all the metaphors and douse your hands in honesty.
Avant-garde is anything but knowing what you're guaranteed.
And being sick and miserable, it gives you personality.
With all the words and poetry, I still can't feel a Goddamn thing.