That powder looks like pixie dust
Whiskey makes my knife thrust
That swollen face has me hushed
Your very existence infects me
Inside my head is oddly strange
In my thoughts, you are in chains
Pathetic, waiting, to be slowly slain
Your pride forever unsatisfied
My little fingers get a better grip
Betwixt one razors edge and mine
Calm and chaotic perfectly aligned
Deafening quiet screaming silence