Centipede smiles spread across my skin.

Flesh crawler, dream wearer, I am.

Unwelcome in a mess of new thoughts.

Bleeding sentiment, behind closed walls.

The future clogs up inside my pours.

As it's already stale and greatly abhorred.

A shaking fear of a wanted distraction;

I close my ghost off with my hearts retraction.

My wielded words, are weapons of sorrow;

so follow me through to the hollow.

Where masked faces never trust in

those small moments of sway...

when daydream nights turn

into bedlam days...

The monsters sing, only in my head.

But am I one of them, or one of the dead?

-HMG