Running through wooden doors
Staring through the keyhole,
Dried paint creates the illusion of snow as it falls,
You taste the metal as it numbs your taste buds,
Think deep, your tongue retracts,
Into it's own little home, leaves no tracks,
Your hands push, fingerprints invisible,
Persperation gathers on your palms,
Adrenaline rushes through your heart,
You hear it beat clearly for the first time,
The truest sense of feeling alive,
You feel everything, yet in that there is no feeling,
Gentle fluxtuations in the ripple of the wind,
One of the many layers of dirt scratch so softly at your thigh,
This something which is nothing is almost pain,
The mood changes, moon turns red,
Diamonds and ink now diluted blue,
Mountains sillohuetted against the dawn,
Have no purpose to you, you seeth,
Once more through the keyhole,
White rabbit, down the hole,
Sweet Alice in blue equal to the dawn,
You see his eyes twinkle so,
In reality he blinks, places watch in his waistcoat,
In your imagination standing motionless,
PIcture on the nursery wall
Cooing over empty crib, pink eyes genuine joy,
Feel the wood crumble against your raw hands,
Destroy the picture, get into reality,
Take fistfuls in your hands, splinters deepen,
Feel your face to find yourself black eyed,
What can old bruises hide?
Mark of the keyhole, fresh on your face,
Soft blonde hair tickles your cheek,
Little Alice has come to you to greet,
Blink. Hallucogenic paint wearing off,
You feel several droplets of sweat accumalate on your forehead,
Each fall to the ground with a sickening thud,
The orchids on the windowsill suddenly smell so sweet,
Buzzing bee, each flap of wings brings you closer to your target,
Stained, defeated the carpet gives way,
To wooden floor, match wooden doors,
So the war is on all over again,
Only bricks and mortar, never a real home,
Your hand slips you fall to your left side,
Your taste buds welcome the dust mites,
The bee's dew drop eyes alive with malice,
Orchids cascade to the ground, the glass shatters,
Spluttering on the dust, wiping your eyes as they burn,
Several seconds small, sharp pain, then released,
Instead stand paralysed to truly see what you've done,
The house, now mere foundations is not what you see,
Yellow black stripes because the bee gave up it's life,
Just to haunt your conscience, never yo be freed.
Dried paint creates the illusion of snow as it falls,
You taste the metal as it numbs your taste buds,
Think deep, your tongue retracts,
Into it's own little home, leaves no tracks,
Your hands push, fingerprints invisible,
Persperation gathers on your palms,
Adrenaline rushes through your heart,
You hear it beat clearly for the first time,
The truest sense of feeling alive,
You feel everything, yet in that there is no feeling,
Gentle fluxtuations in the ripple of the wind,
One of the many layers of dirt scratch so softly at your thigh,
This something which is nothing is almost pain,
The mood changes, moon turns red,
Diamonds and ink now diluted blue,
Mountains sillohuetted against the dawn,
Have no purpose to you, you seeth,
Once more through the keyhole,
White rabbit, down the hole,
Sweet Alice in blue equal to the dawn,
You see his eyes twinkle so,
In reality he blinks, places watch in his waistcoat,
In your imagination standing motionless,
PIcture on the nursery wall
Cooing over empty crib, pink eyes genuine joy,
Feel the wood crumble against your raw hands,
Destroy the picture, get into reality,
Take fistfuls in your hands, splinters deepen,
Feel your face to find yourself black eyed,
What can old bruises hide?
Mark of the keyhole, fresh on your face,
Soft blonde hair tickles your cheek,
Little Alice has come to you to greet,
Blink. Hallucogenic paint wearing off,
You feel several droplets of sweat accumalate on your forehead,
Each fall to the ground with a sickening thud,
The orchids on the windowsill suddenly smell so sweet,
Buzzing bee, each flap of wings brings you closer to your target,
Stained, defeated the carpet gives way,
To wooden floor, match wooden doors,
So the war is on all over again,
Only bricks and mortar, never a real home,
Your hand slips you fall to your left side,
Your taste buds welcome the dust mites,
The bee's dew drop eyes alive with malice,
Orchids cascade to the ground, the glass shatters,
Spluttering on the dust, wiping your eyes as they burn,
Several seconds small, sharp pain, then released,
Instead stand paralysed to truly see what you've done,
The house, now mere foundations is not what you see,
Yellow black stripes because the bee gave up it's life,
Just to haunt your conscience, never yo be freed.