I bleed like I need a transfusion, but blood's the illusion that life lingers on
when all hope of a quick death has gone.
A long time ago when I shone like a star and only entertained life in the death of one more bar in the bottom of a glass,
where E= Mass only pertained to a lass, who picked me up to dust me down,
I realised
that as a man I was a clown drowning in my oceans of failures and friendships unvetted and instantly regretted.
I bleed red, the colour of rage in my blood where the only good vessel I sailed on was in me and sank without trace.
Now I whirr in the midnight, a spinning top that's not quite right.

I break apart every other beat of my heart
to search for the thrill that will **** me
and still bleed like I need a transfusion.