She sits upon a throne of needles,
but yet she sits quietly and painfully,
The stabs of needles through her sides are
echoed around the room.
The needles are powered by the thoughts,
"I Am Hated"
She looks back behind and sees people
panting at her like a caged animal
At the same time she is being
stabbed in the back for fun
Her thoughts are always lingering
with the scent of paranoia and
sorrow.
Her back is now seeped with the blood
of her fallen friends that only lay
to waste
Their bellies and minds are wounded
by those prickly fingers of theirs
They are not pitied.
She can't do anything but sit on her
throne of needles that all their sorrows
built. She can only compress them.
So she sat unmoving, motionless, unable
to climb out of the safety of her throne
While bullies prick her thumbs
toward Death's Way.
We walk a road of rocks and
rubble
Your feet are bruised and cut by
the sharp words of the weak
People stumble upon the Queen of the
Needles seeking refuge from the pungent
aroma of pain.
She is silent in the face of need,
unable to move upon her throne, she
just watches as another comrade falls.
The Queen looks toward the sky,
a shooting star
represents the tears
of her partners that
fell victim to the
punches and kicks
of simple words of others
She is silent,
sitting upon her throne of needles,
calls of help traveling through her back,
dripping down her sides.
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