I miss the days when every smoke ring became an angel following each sweet inhale,
now I just see visions of your face burning in hell.
I feel no remorse,
you brought this upon yourself, your own actions spiral you downward.
I'm not a hateful man, just a lost wanderer expecting too much from a broken world,
chasing after the perfect rush of perfection to cleanse my soul's orifices of afflictions, just an expression of life slowly becoming dust.