My arm is a canvas,
My knife is my paintbrush,
I used to throw my head back,
Riding the rush.
Now the rush is gone,
But I don’t know for how long,
I’m a ghost of a shadow,
All my feelings are dead,
I don’t even feel alive,
I’ve gone numb from all this shit that’s been said.
From the broken promises,
The honeyed lies,
The oh so sweet cover-ups,
But with each I feel apart of me die.
So how long am I going to stay?
On this empty plane of existence,
I wish I were dead,
Like my deceased, frozen senses.
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