Eventually I'll get my **** together.
I won't be able to do it at the rate
you may want, and for that I'm sorry.

To be honest I'm just as sick of this scene as you are, maybe more.

It has a certain appeal though, a certain flavour, a cut loose and not give two flying ***** about anything taste...

It's twenty minutes to Midnight,
almost time for me to hate myself again.
Twenty minutes, and the clock is ticking
till I'll be hunted by you again.

Already I can smell you creeping,
taste you slithering up and out
of the past like some broken nightmare.

Some nights you've got the upper hand,
and others I can hold my own ground,
but neither of us can seem to outright
vanquish the hope in the other.

Were it fated for you and I,
to battle on for all eternity,
it just may be that I could jive,
nay, savy and roll with that.

But you, you've been putting your hooks
into my love's and my dear ones,
you've been putting your ****
in holes that don't belong to you.

Haunting hearts in need of repairs,
forcing your crooked smile
and your fingers made of knives
into places bleeding enough without you.

Come then, if monster enough ye may be,
to face me fully and let us end this
macabre dance in the old way,
have at me, and leave her to the
quiet love of the light of day.

Go ahead then baby,
**** that guy good,
**** him like you wanted
me to *******.

Sorry I couldn't just
be your weekend man,
sorry I'm more interested
in your heart and soul
than I am your ******.

It's the same old story I guess,
playing the role I was given,
doing what I do best,
from a serious distance.

All or nothing is a bad game to play,
and I'm still playing it though,
but this time it's with you.

This is in fact a story, one worth
telling or writing or living,
but it hurts, it hurts to the point
of me wishing it weren't true.

Lost again down those empty hallways,
music in my head and your heart in my mouth,
footfalls echoing from the otherwise silent walls.

To turn about, grasping at shadows just out of reach
knowing that they have something yet to teach,
but of what and for whom they will not speak.

Brought down by hands and hearts and eyes,
hands to break, hearts to bind, and eyes to lie.

In what language do you want me to say it?
Or would hating you be more appropriate,
more in line with your appetite?

And who is that over there,
just beyond your shoulder half shown,
bearing a cowl and a mirror?

We cannot go back and we cannot get out
and who is it that shall carry whom
through the horrors of this night?

I will stay here with you though
and carry the lamp forward
as you try and ****** your own minotaur.

If I had any lingering doubts about
my feelings for you, they died tonight.

It's probably a not so healthy thing,
me not able to say what I want to,
when you and your heart mean more
to me than my own.

My life is in transit, in limbo as always,
and yet here I am, as walls crumble
about me, the walls I've built so tall,
falling at last to you.

It's time I admit how much I love you, how many nights I've spent
drinking myself into oblivion just
wishing for a single question.

Maybe, I should ask that question,
but I'm not sure, can't know what you want unless you tell me.

I'm trying, so hard, with everything
I am, but you're so enigmatic that
I don't ever know what to say.

Congratulations by the way, you've
achieved something no one else
has been able to do...
you are hurting me dear.

My absolute worst fear,
worse than being empty,
worse than insanity,
far worse than dying
broken and alone....
is that you may one day
love me, and if I gave you
what remains of my heart
and ruptured soul on that
day, it would break you.

You've never asked what my
name means, probably because
yours is so obvious that I
haven't had to ask what
yours does, or where it comes from.

You are a Fox, English in origin
linguisticly, with a very illustrious
line, stretching back to the days
before the Norman conquest.

My name, from the Low German,
is Hemlock, and that is exactly
what I am. A beautiful tree in my
opinion, but poisonous to all.

They gave of me to Socrates
as a death sentence, and on
the deeply flawed romantic
in me, the sweet irony isn't lost.

Thus we come to the truth of
my fears, deep fears, deeper by
far than the usual ones that
accompany thoughts of you.

You, in your ignorance are
intrigued by me, as you said.
Should you eat of my heart,
and be poisoned, body and
soul, the last parts of me that
believe in all that you are,
would die with you.