There's a path lost in the plains.
It leads nowhere
It is worshipped for its ability to mislead
It knows you.
It knows what you have done,
It has seen the inside of your skull and all of it's
I know what I have done.
The words are scrawled messily upon my lips
Written on my body like a testament to disfigurement by design
Sometimes they drip onto these pages,
Oily like a perfume
And staining as such
I've nothing left to defend
My skin is worn, and my soul charcoal
My neural pathways redirected by a drunk railroad worker,
And is overdue for collision
As it appears destined to be.
I'm only as good as the creator sees fit,
My materials are recalled,
Misshapen and deformed,
Distorted and torn
As if it were a sin,
To be doctored into the wrong story,
Trapped inside a dilution of morality
I was born guilty