Only A Blind Rose Sees Its Own Throns

Boiling in the filthy stench of your own boiling cauldron in your false life      
How many myths does it take you wet soaking witch      
To convince yourself to hide behind another mask after your cause rife      
Unto this Queen who have respectably stepped away from the shadows of her throne      
To play chess on your board, where I move, until you have no home      
          
There is supremacy behind words, intellectual minds will realize that without hesitation      
A fool’s ploy, a kill joy, playing with minds like toys, like these poets are dumb witted boys      
You bathe in the essence of your carnal sins      
Drain the nasty water of your facade, your romantic pretense as a jester with tricks as a young chick hungry for arousal who I'm sure will delude over and over again      
Bitter demonic tongue as you run to and fro for comfort to be burned by the rise of the sun