"The Afflictions of this Life become our Crown and Pride."

Old wounds covered
by gold-plated scars...
Casted by years and
years of shit that's
made me, me

Nostalgia that I entertain
when I want to revisit old
pain
But these things never go
away, no

They've become the noose
wrapped tightly around my
throat
But is it a problem that I find
this self-asphyxiation a
pleasure that's erotic

Daily I give myself to mental
floggings; my own past, written
in my flesh, is my own
self-inflected, Stigmata

I know I should and think I could
but if I did would it really be for
the best because can a man
separate himself from the
internal afflictions of his soul
and still be who he is

We can't give ourselves away
because we weren't bought
with a price...
We're all who we are, which we've
been made into through the
process of time...

And if in any way ought of this
deduced from us we would then
not be self-autonomous

But we're all individualistic and
selfmade products