Sitting underneath the cellar stepps is just a boy with a dream, but is he monster? or man? Is he an angel? Everyone seems to have confronted or to have ran.
Inside the blackest of holes, lingers a greyer heart of life, a heart noone seems to understand.
It's inhabitants tell me what garbage is from a real true man. What an unpaid prostitute is from a real true girl.
Between the cracks they're lies a what if?
What if I was to destroy the whore?
What if I was to torture and kill the backstabber.
If I was to mass murder 666 of the uglies, you could call me lucifer's hell void, A grim reaper of the weak and dirty minds.
I would be considered god to many, but about the same as the con-artist and it's rebelious entirety all to my self. When your heart turns the color red with love as my heart does more than often, you realize someone loves that person, and that person loves that someone. That person I would not wish upon hurting.
The what if? comes around agian when the rain hits hard and tells me, I'm gonna tear another hole just to see what color I can make your heart turn tonight, hoping that it will just stay grey with question and study, possibly will turn to black, yet ever wishing for pure red. The grey is frustrated, the black says kill, the red says love one another.
The rain will continue to pound, and that person's heart may turn black.