I Built This Treehouse in the Ground

Ch. 12- Dirty Romantics Yield Dirty Thoughts Find Dirty Pictures Lose Dirty Sleep

Away from reality, away from my sanity.
Against the ivory floor, back pressed up against cold linen sheets.
Sheets that wrap my bathtub and cry tears of loss and rage.
I am lost the millionth time, as my knees press into my chest.

Just bare in my underwear, just bare in my shame.
Just lit in my empathy, just sit till I am tame.
But lost in reality, and shunned by myself.
As I delve through these mysteries of this heaven, so called hell.

Because bent on this hell am I frothing the lip.
And slash my incentives as heaven falls down my steps.
And breed immaculate peoples, breed sheppards and whores.
Because all I need is cinema, a camera, and no more.

But love is now a shadow, because lust is now my game.
And cinema is my longing, and deep throat my crave.
And falling into deeper holes I find myself dug in.
I dug while I was lost away, away trapped in my sin.
The green that rolls away my tips, these fingers sit elsewhere.
Alone I find myself this room, alone I do not care.

For friends are ones on trashy beds, shackled lights, with four scored titles, and mountains of lead.

I spin and spin and spin into this silent addiction.
This is my anti-drug.