I don't know about you, but I am still a ghostwriter.
Fall after fall I take, just to get up and grind harder.
Witnessing shadow, twisted with riddles, I'm an old timer.
Illicit rhymer, fate fighter, I'm still a ghostwriter.
To drums of ashes, skeletons are marching.
I write these lines while shadows are watching,
but neither a writing utensil or keys I'm touching.
Mic attached to my head, barbed wire wrapped around my neck.
All the burdens of lead, I stream from my brain to the input jack.
With a machine, I made a pact.
Burned by cotton, but my words resurrect.
No voices, no faces, no one to reflect.
Through binary codes, with you, I interact.
It's no childish fantasy, no entertainment act.
My blood is diluted from disinfect.
Sterilization sweeps, I'm one of many to perfect.
Cult reject, my steps intertwine with steel,
joints and ball bearings, stitched scars that never heal.
Muscle, one with metal, to make sure I never kneel.
Enshrined shape shifters, my soul will not become their meal.
Ear-ripping siren of the drill, I hear.
The butcher is near, but I won't adhere.
Maddened by thoughts of death, confused souls run in fear
to the enshrined, in hopes of sacred shelter.
But it's the temple that is the soul-extracting smelter.
In there, surrounded by ripped angel wings, shape shifters swelter.
They are used to heat.
Long ago, they were scorched, to become self-proclaimed elite.
And it is by deceit, they sterilize these souls, off which they feed.
In fact, the butcher is part of their creed.
If to the shrine, frightened souls don't proceed,
butcher lifts them off the ground, no matter how hard they plead.
He strips the skin off their flash. While still alive, they bleed.
He binds their limbs. They become example breed.
Hearts and lungs exposed, they are results of a disobedient deed.
Stumbling around, they spread the fear seed.
Pain and agony, from mangled souls, they excrete.
All this might repeat,
like dizzying sickness, skewing reasons for existence.
Beauty turned to dolls with plastic uniqueness,
diseased and brought down with material weakness.
With persistence, I try to escape all this ill,
but this poisonous fog is draining my will.
My back crawls with suspicious chill,
that this is not a nightmare but something real.
Although, sometimes, I hear music from a magical realm.
I follow its melodies and step into a fragile dream."