Someone put a sock in it
a
right old writers block on it
and I am fukin sick of it
I think I'm going to paint.

This ain't no picnic party
but I bet you'd like to
start me
on a drop of mothers ruin

I'll be ****** if I took one drink
so I'll drink a flaming hat full
it's so easy being spiteful
when you're three sheets
to the wind.

And then
what happens to me
are the links of chains run through me
and I forge a new opinion

if only
and another

and
if only is the other side of sixpence that we toss.

Then I tried to paint the candlelight,
believe me
it's much easier to
sit and write.

You ignite a fire in my blood that nothing can quell,
for such a perfect angel, you're sure a lot like hell.
And alright I'll admit it, yes to you I lied,
but any hope of a future, well that's surely died.
So go right on and hate me, I'd hate me as well,
but I could never hate you back, if only you could tell.

An emotionless pit of skin and bones
   Sunken eyes and pupils made of stones
She can't hear the judgement or grief
       Silently she sits with stares of disbelief
    She can't understand what she feels
         or say what she thinks
    Illiterate emotionally, unstable and drained of dignity
       Sleeps so sound she can't even hear her dreams
             Life continuously surrounds her yet can't seem to slow down
       She can't remember where the last place her sanity was found
           Dug herself into the ground just struggling to breathe
        Too lost in her mind to find the time to grieve
           An empty shell of the soul that she used to be
       And no one will be on the other side
                     *waiting...