your words are like swords,
that stick in me like rusting thorns,
but you are only good for one thing,
while i am good for nothing,
that's our secret
i saw your name written on a wall,
it was etched in a jagged scrawl,
in a room that was locked yet open,
in the blood caked mud,
a Flower grows
show me another Sign?
accepting half-truths as known Fact
and creating a world BENT in its Alignment...
"How many bands can I call mine?!!"
