Drain The Swamp
#1
So closed, your eyes in this lonely dream. When you wake up rinsed in all this pain and covered in makeup. Stare into the mirror, those eyes will always be something you fear.
Looking back, the one you see is the person you wish you could be, or to run from. Standing in the mirror, the shame you blame all the eyes inside you when you scream.
You try to wipe it away, but the black runs too deep. The red seams too like to seep. Blue eyes stare like cold glares from the void of the ice and slowly they creep until nothing else beyond that you is what can be seen.
We use needles to dig in our grooves, scratch us up until that version of ourselves can finally be put away. However, it won’t be death, but a lull or sleep that will fall only for so many years. We could live for a century, but the demons we breed will always crawl like mites at our seams. Little ticks we prick and pick, but each only serve to show us who we are with every scar we cut away.

At the bottom of the swamp, buried by misunderstanding and willful ignorance, we that came before and strived to push a better future find ourselves in the position that we must now awaken. Drain the swamp and cake the earth in the blood of the defamed.
When I look in the mirror, what I see is a man I’ll never play again, but can never ever put away.
Torn between two versions of a non-existent self, I tug at the heartless strings of dead dolls and marionettes that have chosen to exhume my body.
You are the ones that chose to chew off your own arms, gouge out your eyes and rip out your own tongues.
So listen,

I was never special, only broken. I’ll never be fixed.
Still, there’s no one else I’d rather be like.
So much shame and too much strength to game from my pain to give it to someone else.

Datura, I chose to return to show you, in turn, that there is very little on land that resembles the world I had left to people like you. How in the hell does one live in a world where actual wrestling is banned? How in the whirl of ignorance swirls that that become the girls and boys of this mental toy do you live like clowns on the graves of those that paved the way for you to be giants?
We’re not special, we’re just broken, and we don’t want to be fixed.
We are sick, fucked up and complicated, but we don’t need to find some help.
When I say that we’re ill, no pill will help us just go away, it’s the perfume we bathe in, the misery we brush in our teeth and in the end, we all end up in a garbage dump, but those like me were the ones holding your hand. We couldn’t be cured, so you could know it’s okay to be scarred.
People like you and I could have married with the left hand. Could have danced on the ashes of the madding crowd.
We could have been complicated.

I am no man of show, no effigy to the moon, nor here at kill of you. I was an image projected onto you, but whether you chose to understand or over state your demands to be dance in this circus, I don’t know. I’m too blind to know.
I’m just a broken man.
So, here lies the dead.

My arms have broken and bent, pierced the thicket of roots and muck to stretch out into the foul water. My ascent from the swamp won’t matter if people like you continue to chase the dead.
You know you wished you could be there too, but as my body now lifts from the depth, it won’t matter, cause in this world there’s no tomorrow.
A thick film, super 8 lathered like brick across the surface of this swamp that has buried the past like I was against you can be broken. To climb over as the ice freezes us in this inferno, I’ve chosen to come to life only to show how dead you all really are.
Datura, like the rest of you, smug and fat royal rats in kitten skins, dance into the formal ball with no balls and call yourselves cowboys and natives. You battle with martini’s and disease filtered laughs. Crowns and gowns, and you have forgotten the King is invisible.
Now half-way and one step forward, I’ll move onto land toward your mansions and moving to the smell of your blood, skin like cotton candy, and dreams so easy to melt, it’s time for me to do what I do and hold a mirror to your champaign problems. 
That’s the point.
No return.

Alioth is no zombie, not space man, October is over. I’m here to ring all the bells that can ring, to show you the crack in everything from my satellite.
If you don’t want to know, I don’t need to show, but now that I’ve awakened, I’m not just going to go.
Don’t get in the way of the unforgiving. You’re not the hero. I’ll show each of you that you’ll be dead longer than you’re alive.
It’s up to you to decide what kind of corpse you leave, because once you’re first class on the astral plane, you’ll realize you’re worth nothing in this world and the one before.
We’ll all get what we deserve and deserve what we get. To those that steal from the rest, I’m not just the past, I am the future, and I keep my head together.

Now that you have set fire to the tree of life, I get to watch your suffering, high on the smoke and dance in your ashes.
So, who will I be stepping on now? 
Garbage or God?
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