A yell, a hit, a tear.
Sounds echo in my thoughts
Why am I ignorant? Why do I lie?
I dream; I don’t remember
Well it's nothing new,
Nothing to shake the rattles in the mind
My heart laughs; pain must be present.

I am the last, the genuine thing
Already I am no longer looked at with disgruntle or respect.
A prisoner of my own stupid intellect.
This empty room is filled with sound.
Can you sense the heat of Satan's breath?
The beat of Christ's song is pounding in my chest.

The reality of what I need winds itself around my heart.
What am I for? My truth is only mediocre
Must have something to set me apart.
Where does this stem from? Childhood?
Why not, it's an easy enough target.
You're entrapped in the web I weave of
Stories, feelings, and conniving words.
You'll never know it's origin

I am the last.
The genuine thing
There is no escape from truth.