Blood under my skin is bubbling within writhing faces, the layer of pain. All in my den surrounding my own iron bars wafting around the fog of addiction. Pasted all of this on my forehead, they all stood there as i bled from social awkwardness. Feeding off the poison i will slowly turn if i don’t spit it out on the window sill Till Lindemann is looking while doing his hammer. Do i have to pay to pray to my diet of spiritual upkeep? I think believing is growing out of my chest and raping around my neck. I’m back in my words coming through this turnaround pulling out all the starts to a backwards relative immaturity. Look for me on the rainy tower thinking about the bloody hand cuffs on the ground.