Waste - Whispering Sons

Fragile figure

Don’t speak

The texture of your words

Tortures me

Deep blue desert

Desperate idea

The pleasure of her touch

Tortures me

Surging blood

Boiling streets

The pressure of my thoughts

Tortures me

I can’t see

I can’t see

I won’t accept

Except my own ideas

It’s a perversity

That’s slowly

Spiraling down in me

Fragile figure

I want to make you scream

The texture of your cries

Pleasures me

I can’t see

I can’t see

I won’t accept

Except my own ideas

It’s a perversity

That’s slowly

Spiraling down in me

It’s a perversity

I don’t know if I care