The Fucked Up Things

I wish my work could come out nice

That could give some credit and take advice

But it can’t and my words are cursed

The fucked up things are what I think up first

With my eyes sewn shut

And my mouth cut open

The pen and paper

Goes through the motions

Tied to the chair

Of pain and sorrow

The worst of today’s

Are the best tomorrows

Squirming agony

And hearing voices

Your consequences form

From my bitter choices

We are not standard

By any means

I cause destruction

While I lucid dream

And hear them scream

Just to feed it

My blood, my sharpest knife

That begs to bleed it

My veins are empty

From blades and tools

And my paper is soaked of scarlet pools