Habitual Murderer - Azazel

Ripped down piece by piece

Old life crumbles in your hand

I feel deceased

No burn, no sickness

How surprising is okay

Don’t look at me

I am shamed

I wear my letter

You piont your finger

Never good enough

Never get up Weak like sand

And ask your tearing me down

The ache in my back

The burn in my legs

Your sight burns me I feel no more, it said

You only die once

Lies filthy lies