The Collector : Punk Number 9

Youre the Collector, I hear,
With a leather mask, and a steampunk soul,
The bullet you left in my closet led me here,
Breath of smoke, one push-up, two, ten, twenty, fifty,
All within the line of a gun,

The butterfly kisses you gave me in my dreams,
I know what you are now,
Come take this curse from me,
I'd like to learn more now,
My scars, bleed unto you, forever,
All within my soul of leather,

Blood,sweat, my lustful secretion,
A thousand forgettable loves,
Now fed into your mind,
All of my sin, my corrupt minion of an alter ego,
All poured inside of you,

I'm still standing,
In the middle of your arena,,
These stone walls I've heard so much about,
That hold screams that are said to echo in your ears to this day,
Well you're not that bad,

You might be dead, but youre still breathing,
This engine might be running, but your mind is gone,
But still you kill,
And decompose,
And birth,

My light stoln from my eyes, I'm blind,
Replaced by mechanized tear drops,
Now I see, now i see...
This is what happens when you fuck with fidelity,
With sanity,

A letter written with bones on the tile floor,
With blood on the dance floor,
We take over,
Fly over the black hills,
Into this red horizon,
Somewhere there's solace for both of us, I keep telling you,
But you just look off into the distance,

I know I'm one of your dolls,
Another story in your fantasy book,
But, with your blood in me, I can see beyond your dead humanity,
And have hope for this disease,
To kill off the ones who caused your wounds,
I'll fight with this knife,
Against the barrel of their guns,

One slice to the throat,
Against one shot through the heart,
What hurts more? Though they cause both pains,
I'll die again and again to find your golden arms,
And reconstruct this anonymous shadow,
In the form of lost self...