Now I come from the wrong side of town.

Up ain't up, but down is down.

The stress in my life was created

to mess with my head

which is a paradox

When you look at it closely

I'm already dead.

Devotion is something so cruel

When it comes to love

It drills right into you

Green eyed and dangerous

Exceptions do not exist.

But when your dead you

Just go for the throat.

Now for whatever purpose

that could be proposed.

I'm only attracted

To the pain

Self destruction seems to be the theme

Scarlet roses painted while bleeding

Not my own blood.

I can't bleed for such things.

If I can't be happy.

Better to be angry.

I think I should give up on thoughs

Radical notions of falling for torment

and failing over and over

I'm so much better on

black thoughts and black dreams

then falling and love

and deleting my being.

Did you succumb to being inane?

Can you fix it or find someone with the capacity

to love tradgety

and understand what I'm trying to say?