Hollow honey rocks on top —
you lie to me and never stop.
The rock is surface, air inside;
your talk, it kisses my bright side.
So sweet: ideally, kiss me freely;
never know just what is really
happening within your shell —
just heated air and empty hell.
Your core is a cold war of silence;
more and more you lose your sense,
where simple things are made of you —
those things control your fading view.
Chorus
Well, love — dies softly — I lie so well
that my pain — is worse — than a thousand hells.
Though honey — is sweet — you are far from that,
and your empty parts — are filled with endless combat.
Well, I hate it, despise it, can’t ever hope to hide it;
I can’t bind it, you can’t find it, no mankind just can’t define it.
I’m inclined to stand behind it, but confined, decline to be reminded
that resigning would remind me of how badly you unwind me.
So, like hollow honey rocks,
your heart is locked up in a box —
appearing wonderful at first,
but once experienced, a curse.
And smashing you would bring me peace,
perhaps allow for your release;
but empty air would not subside
when what’s inside appears outside.
So killing you would show the real you —
in thrilling me, but stealing from you.