Self Destruction

Clock ticks, pouring in my head, pouring a glass of something hard to drain it out. Not a suitable answer but it comes fast, as a search for a fast girl becomes my dutiful choice. Making choices on a high of sinful flesh, making choices trying to cure a sinful soul. Never having a broken heart because I never put it out there, putting out that plastic artificial one, still doing a fantastic job so I can still be number one. Falling from the sky, passing by clouds one by one as I try to catch my soul from escaping, trying to escape from a corrupt shell and find a better one before I descend to hell in a gasoline wardrobe. The gasoline lining of this potion cures the dream for a moment as I give someone, something to dream of, enjoying the subtle taste of its errant nature and making it my nurturing desire. Quickly coming up for air but forgetting to say thank you as I inhale that line of air, becoming superhuman quickly as I detach myself with a thank you, no cold air running over me as I leap over buildings to become wealthy but there is no air in the position of wealth, so I strap on a O2 mask to keep this position and keep a straw so I can dull the absent of warmth with something chest burning as the clock continues to tick.