Disclaimer: I do not own any characters from or related to Pitch Black or TCOR. I do not own the lyrics to 'BURIED ALIVE', those of which belong to Otep Shamaya.

I speak in verses, prophecies, and curses.

No miracle is coming,

it's just a hole.

Nothing's wrong with you;

just maintain control

I speak with the fire of hell on the tip of my tongue, and I think with the cynicism of forgotten martyrs. There is no safe; no home base. There is no stop; no release. I live in a cell half of the time and the rest of the time I reside in a pit. As slowly, painfully dig myself deeper into my own bleeding, receding grave. Having nothing but the grave and the cell as my company. Having no one to talk to, and I stay in the dark so that I can't see my scars. I feel like I'm gonna break, and sometimes I get nauseous, but I can't break the mask. I get so delusional, and I hope for something more, but fuck it. I'm number one on my list of priorities; I am one of one. I'm must grasp and clutch what filth and dirt I have left, to pull myself out of this grave.

Everyone's asking questions;

no place is safe.

I'll forfeit resurrection,

to escape this pain

I'm tired of all the questions, and stupid thoughts. I can't escape from the people that try to sum up my life; creating examples of what not to do and what not to look forward to. Looking at inkblots and bloodstains, they tell me to search for the truth. So I slit there throats, just to see, and prove that a convict might not bleed the same filth as they do. I have no escape, its just a constant freak show. I'd release myself, if the law would let me. I would gladly sit upon that iron thrown that waits for me, but I can't; as I said I have to wait for it; earn it. I lost all hope of revenge, because I don't wish for a return. I'd sooner burning in a the devil's hell, then to rot it out in this cell. I'd sooner give my life in order to keep my death.

I hate my life...I HATE MY LIFE...

I speak in verses, prophecies and curses.

This storm of thorns is growing;

there's no end in sight.

Chaos claws my jaw,

and incites a mental riot

Will this redundant, circling, rotting life end? Why is it kill or be killed? Why can't I just sever until I bleed no more. This chaos, this hate, is growing and I've found no release yet. Will the sun set? Does the time stall? Is there such a thing as friend. And all the questions ravage my mental health, and the violence consumes. The inmates choke my neck, and I claw at it and search for an egress. But none is found, and it picks away still.

I'm in the mouth of madness,

with a tongue of poetry.

I ate the spine of Atlas,

now the world is crushing me.

This prison, this cell, is equivalent to be in the mouth of the devil. I speak with flare, and so does the rest. For those who talk not, know much; and those that talk much no not. I lie, I cheat, and kill, and yet I'm a martyr to a girl and a long lost crew. And here lies the hero, sitting, and gnawing at the bars of the cell. I got here by my own doing, and I got to the top on other peoples backs. I've broke them, and then devoured them along the way. I did this because I couldn't get there myself, so I took it. I thought what's done is done, but somehow corpses always come back, to make amends.

Buried alive behind enemy lines.

Surrogate child for the sins of all mankind.

Buried alive behind enemy lines, buried alive, buried alive.

For the sins of all mankind.

I am bathed in sin, blood, and dirt, but they still want to put nails in my wrists. They want me dead but then again they want to redeem me. This is how they repay a murderous hero; I don't know what's worse. I'm a surrogate child, a poster child, and a spokesman. I don't want this burden, and I don't want the sins. I want to leave this world, but I still stay in. Prison is a purgatory, and purgatory is being buried alive.

I hate my life...I HATE MY LIFE...