A tragic accident.
The road to hell is paved with good intentions.
Humor masking a sadistic nature.
Eyes consumed by betrayal.
Mask on.
Manipulation, justified sacrifices.
Despite all, I let them live.
Because that’s what heroes do—we show mercy.
You’re bandits.
You’re the bad guys,
and I am the goddamn hero.
At the edge of the horizon,
That’s what you’re resisting.
Beauty, purity, order.
Mask slipping.
You’re a plague.
Your kind have corrupted this world—
greed and hatred.
I must save this world from your kind.
Now do me a favor, and die.
It’s not enough.
This disgusting planet,
these puppets.
I want it all.
Every planet, every star.
Call me old-fashioned,
What's a king to a god?
Mask off.
What's that saying?
Don’t pick a fight with a man who’s got nothing left to lose?
You're a savage.
You’re a maniac.
You’re a bandit,
and I am the goddamn hero.
"Justification"
They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions , my excuse for sipping got me feeling like l need a healing for l have been dealing forgive me.
What a great feeling , jumping onto the ceiling now that's a meaning , the world in reverse as l search for myself only to realize l was never lost .
Deep in thought the mathematics to the sum giving out numbers yet the working wrong and they say it is a fact .
Cannot argue with time for it has taken and shall take the minutes it meant something to the moon for the sun to appear.
I bask into his glory as l beg for grace over my transgressions all l am is a man yet l got a choice to do better and be better l choose to feel better with poison polluting my lungs tick tock to the hour of the Grim Reaper .
I dodge bullets , inhale the herbs after church just to get an Amen as l lose faith due to refusing to acknowledge his omnipotence only to be wiped away by the reality of moments.
Therefore let me forgive so l can be forgiven for yesterday ' s mistakes trying to rectify today 's forgotten flaw .
No matter how old we are or get to be
If we are going to succeed, one can never quit
There will always be some rocks in the road
Some are in front of us, some we never see
We can never say, this is it
Just have to keep on hauling our load
If you feel like you have been on a wild goose chase
On a dead end street with no U turn
And it is always your neck in the noose
Running here and there, all over thee place
But that is the only way to learn
Only to find out that you are chasing the wrong goose
Some times not sure our path or where it will lead
Finding the road to Hell is paved with good intentions
Ending up in the ditch of life's interstate
Going to Hell at a high rate of speed
You need to change your directions
Don't give up, it is never to late
Life is not a magic carpet ride or some fantasy
Pretty castles or a trail of fairy dust
It can be a mean old monster that will kick you in the groin
The best wake up call is a thing called reality
Where one makes it or goes bust
No matter the case, we have to keep on going
so many times I've heard this mentioned
that the road to hell is paved with good intentions
good intentions can only be
if they are not under a cloud of hypocrisy
if you strive to always live right by Christ
then good intentions should be your life
and as long as your heart is true and contrite
your good intentions should make things go right
so do good work and do good deeds
and may your good intentions always succeed
yet I wonder why I've never heard this mentioned,
that the path to God is through redemption?
Staggered by the virus burning through the city veins,
Stop motion, speeded up, the slam of distant trains,
Rattled through the concrete as forgotten people die,
Howling jets of power chords go crashing through the sky.
The cardboard jungle stretches out along the seamy streets,
Where grimy flesh of down and outs use newspapers for sheets
And sleep with crazy fetishes that slice and dice the skull,
Narcosis bred by pills and soup make all the senses dull.
The rail-yard cauldron simmering with cabbages and rats,
Skin and fur of vermin bleeding protein in the vats,
It tastes of pulped up sewer waste distilled by Mr Hyde,
The methylated spirits put some flavour back inside.
Leaned up against the siding now corroded through with rust,
The corrugated blackened bones of asbestos and dust,
Insanity, reality, all sympathy gone up in flames,
Lunacy screams at the moon and calls the symptoms names.
Down here it doesn’t matter what the poets choose to write,
The road to hell is paved with good intentions every night,
The only thing that means a damn is death will set us free
Of all the madman chronicles of sociology.
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