Under my skins
Dreams of bliss
Sharp Bones of ink
and Razor-thin sins
With butter
Bread and narcotics
Red Creation down the gutter
On mother of pearl wrists
Eating numb angel skins
Or Dolls on shelves
A taste of Matrice
Id or Ego, of my Selves
Persona made out of clay
Art of Escapology
At Night my therapists say
"Tis' possibly Vanity over Sanity"
…
(II- from 'Bondage-stitched dreams)
by Fayçal J.
http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=52901783559#/profile.php?id=621680709&v=info&viewas=645799738
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