Our Own Is What's Left

A loss of ambition, The gradual loss of motion, Chained down by a comfort addiction, Through messages in bottles I can display emotion, Ballads of personal insecurities and holy benedictions, Yet for all of my eloquent speech and fits of burning passion I lie dormant, Bleeding out the fire of life and injecting contentment, Oh how my heart is retched with contempt, My mind cries out to be challenged, Dusted off the shelf where only the scraps of intelligence can be scavenged, Fashion me a weapon and I will find my purpose, Hone my body into a vessel of destruction, Unleash me upon the world to raze this wasteland, With a venomous tongue and boiling blood I will desecrate their idols' construction, But alas for all my sparse fits of insight I lack boldness, Heretical depravity has consumed my soul, I was destined to be a warrior, Yet I scurry underground like a mole.