Forgive me Michael for I am sin. Preserved for battle, designed to win.
Collect those prints that allow dimension and skill. Haste one not to lust, I pursue his own will.
It's tragic really, to find weakness in ones heat; waste not to conceal, this warmth is to sweet.
Forgive me Michael for I am sin. Preserved for battle, designed to win.
It's more then a passion, a habit, or skill. It's a desirable feeling that I often must fill.
It's messy, unmarked, unclean, and mapped. But it's the expression inside that often feels trapped.
I hurt for some time, but I feel quite new. I've now mastered the art and am not quite threw.
Forgive me Michael for I am sin. Preserved for battle, designed to win.
I am laughing at thought, the kind that must pass. Missing myself, the one that had class.
I want capture, security, I want longevity and heat. I need disassociate peers and a lover that's sweet.
Forgive me Michael for I am sin. Preserved for battle, designed to win.
There once was a person that I put away. She was devious, unmarked, and knew how to sway. She was beautiful and kept, and seemed to rule center stage. But she had such a dark side, seemed ruled by rage. I loved how she lingered in thought and found peace in mortality, but was fearful of that smoothness and lack of humanity.
Forgive me Michael for I am sin. Preserved for battle, designed to win.
