Than I hope that you never find yourself in the sights of the blue.
In that cold, dark, room.
Where you’re told questions,
And you ask your answers.
Where days pass
But the slightest breath is caught,
And filled with sharp stabs at your identity, your sense of self.
And lies about you, and your future.
So long as they get an X on that target on your back,
To get the heat off theirs.
And lay that blanket of false security on the town.
And on your former life,
Ended by nothing but words.
SickyBeat 