I'm wondering what your motive is.
I'm wondering how it feels to be so destructive.
How it feels to be you.
What do you do with your lonely days,
guilded with hypocrisy?
You're struggling to be in my life
by attempting to limit it.
When you dash your mirrored lips with claret
you stumble upon your eyes.
And in those dull, gray holes
I hope you see regret.
And as your lungs fill with stolen air,
I know you'll never be content
with this catastrophe.
[But, sadly, solely because your skeleton is blame's outline]
