Eight days a week he lays upon his bed of bones,
Filled with nothing but the ashes of his dreams.

Eight days a week she stands upon his grave,
Flowers in her hands for the one she couldn't save.

Eight days a week the memory of his smile fades,
From her poets mind come the blades;

Why him
*Why him...

Never fall in love with a poet
for their words are sometimes lies
on occasions they're a shield
on occasions a disguise

They will take you on a journey
upon which they bare their soul
in a bid to ease your burdens
in a bid to make you whole

But in every word they choose
for the stories that they tell
lies a little piece of heaven
and a little piece of hell

Tormented souls we poets are
sometimes quite broken and despaired
in search of lost expressions
missed by others who once cared

Never fall in love with a poet
unless you're prepared to share their pain
to hold them close on the darkest nights
over and again

A drug addict's mother will view every overdose as tragic.
While most anyone else will think of them as pathetic.

A family who has a member **** themselves are filled with a hidden resentment.
But those looking over the edge are jealous and happy their pain has ended.

A ****** victim always died "too soon and too young."
But to his enemies, he was just a target on the run.

An accident is just that, and there's no one to blame.
So loved ones forever mourn, quietly going insane.

Disease is just bad luck mainly.
So children left behind often ask, "why me?"

Old age and war are the most honorable ways to go.
But put yourself in their shoes... the newly departed are finally joining their friends.

Death is all about perspective.
And it's always a selfish act.
Not on those that have left us.
But those that want them back.