Hedonistic Angel
Bluelight Crew
You tell me I’m to young to know what
I want.
To immature to know that my existence
On this futile planet,
Has little to do with what I want,
Or need.
But rather what I have to offer mankind.
Too wrapped in your own self absorbed nucleus,
You tell me what is right and wrong.
But have you ever really felt wrong?
Have you ever laid your so called inner child
Open to what society values as evil, vicious and disgusting?
I have,
And I found I liked it.
So sickeningly tinged with age,
Yet so maddeningly naive.
In your eyes I see a child.
No innocence or bright eyed intellectual beauty,
No Freudian repressed anxiety or desire,
Just the pathetic black gaping holes of an entity,
That understands nothing.
It sickens me to know that the being that gave me life,
Created me from her own putrid,
Cellulite rippled flesh,
Has never known half of what I know.
The magnetic impulses that flow through
My central nervous system,
Caused by chemically induced euphoria,
Are alien to her.
To not see the world with all it’s
Hate, greed and anger.
To not know the monotony
Of ritualistic facades that cloud us from ourselves.
To not believe that social acceptance is the
Repression of a person independent mind.
And not to care.
What have you got to offer to man kind?
What globelistic changes have you fabricated
In order to better the lives of the insects known as
The Human Race?
Did you ever once even change your own life?
Did you ever wake up one morning,
Wondering where the fuck you are,
Encased in your own sweat and vomit,
With a sticky black syrup pouring out of
A hole in your arm?
Did you ever stain perfectly white,
Sterile porcelain toilets,
With the acid of your misery?
Have you ever been so disgusted with your own
Pitiful reflection, in a mirror,
That you died.
Did you, dearest mother, ever scrape what’s left of
Your soul, off a tiled bathroom floor,
Wipe the dried vomit from your mouth,
And declare, I will not be this.
Did you ever scream out from somewhere
Deep in the pit of your spleen,
Let me out of this life.
I did,
And I found I liked it.
And you,
Having not known half, of what I know,
Not lived half, as how I live,
Tell me I’m to young to know what
I want.
To immature to know that my existence
On this futile planet,
Has little to do with what I want,
Or need.
But rather what mankind owes me.
I want.
To immature to know that my existence
On this futile planet,
Has little to do with what I want,
Or need.
But rather what I have to offer mankind.
Too wrapped in your own self absorbed nucleus,
You tell me what is right and wrong.
But have you ever really felt wrong?
Have you ever laid your so called inner child
Open to what society values as evil, vicious and disgusting?
I have,
And I found I liked it.
So sickeningly tinged with age,
Yet so maddeningly naive.
In your eyes I see a child.
No innocence or bright eyed intellectual beauty,
No Freudian repressed anxiety or desire,
Just the pathetic black gaping holes of an entity,
That understands nothing.
It sickens me to know that the being that gave me life,
Created me from her own putrid,
Cellulite rippled flesh,
Has never known half of what I know.
The magnetic impulses that flow through
My central nervous system,
Caused by chemically induced euphoria,
Are alien to her.
To not see the world with all it’s
Hate, greed and anger.
To not know the monotony
Of ritualistic facades that cloud us from ourselves.
To not believe that social acceptance is the
Repression of a person independent mind.
And not to care.
What have you got to offer to man kind?
What globelistic changes have you fabricated
In order to better the lives of the insects known as
The Human Race?
Did you ever once even change your own life?
Did you ever wake up one morning,
Wondering where the fuck you are,
Encased in your own sweat and vomit,
With a sticky black syrup pouring out of
A hole in your arm?
Did you ever stain perfectly white,
Sterile porcelain toilets,
With the acid of your misery?
Have you ever been so disgusted with your own
Pitiful reflection, in a mirror,
That you died.
Did you, dearest mother, ever scrape what’s left of
Your soul, off a tiled bathroom floor,
Wipe the dried vomit from your mouth,
And declare, I will not be this.
Did you ever scream out from somewhere
Deep in the pit of your spleen,
Let me out of this life.
I did,
And I found I liked it.
And you,
Having not known half, of what I know,
Not lived half, as how I live,
Tell me I’m to young to know what
I want.
To immature to know that my existence
On this futile planet,
Has little to do with what I want,
Or need.
But rather what mankind owes me.
