America's cla**ic Retained suppression spastic Alone, alone, alone Masks appear on the wall Comatose status but still alive Breath, the smell of d**h lingers Consciousness a myth of reality Grabbing at the door to escape Then falling into red space Floating, trading data with a robot A gray voice shouting words of fate From behind your temples Protruding in a vulgar twitch of agony Separating the halves of the mind Already dead and put to rest Asleep in the stated graveyard A cursor slowly moves across the screen Blinking and palsy in motion Form without substance Spasm dance from Lord of the Flies My hand really hurts My mind's eye lifts Short skirts to expose To violate To penetrate Detained to be that primal scream Roaring, roaring up to be beaten down Rushing past the rows of columns of uniformity Falling flat on the face Remain beaten down to the point Until you can stand to be taller than the opposition