• To have scars covering your skin,
    to never be deemed worthy to be cleansed of sin;
    a life filled with abhorment and pain,
    is a life no poor soul desires to attain,
    The life given to the broken and insane.
    We must beware, lest our desires be nullified,
    and we’ve end up in a place where the Grotesque and the Beautiful dies.

    Even under my scars, I find something worth expressing with my vivid dictation,
    yet I still hail from another loveless dimension.
    Why do I have compassion for those who create tension?
    They inherit the world, yet they hold it in their hearts with no repentance.
    To be of this world is a loveless death sentence;
    In this world, the Grotesque and The Beautiful have no hope lent.

    When our hearts are broken and maimed,
    When the beast inside is never tame;
    the fire in our soul leaves us lost and unwhole.
    The Lord’s soft lullaby we wish to hear when we die,
    lays lost and unheard, yet we are found by pain
    s token.
    Forever we shall rest where none shall transgress.
    no longer hopeless and broken, but our desires will never fall
    in the land of rest for The Grotesque and The Beautiful.

    I look inside of me, a barren shell of who I used to be;
    with a dark heart and a beautiful mind, I find I shall not be redeemed.
    As I look at the world, so beautiful it seems;
    with forests evergreen, a world lit by the bright sun’s beams.
    Bid it is truly a desolate mess, nothing but evil behind the mask and the skull.
    Yes, this is the world of The Grotesque and The Beautiful.

    We are all alone, yet we have our fear’s company;
    we call this hell home, yet we count ourselves amongst the homeless.
    We desire a place bearing temporary harmony,
    but the harmony before is in pieces at our knees.
    We find the empty oblivion is a dark foreboding abyss,
    an abyss we call home, a place so peaceless.
    This is who we are, unmasked and sinful;
    we are The Grotesque and The Beautiful.