All these pent up frustrations,
Banging on my insides,
Playing their anthems on my bones,
Waving a flag for news of the fallen,
Take back my morals,
Return me to my bed,
I'd trade my soul for pocket change,
Sick of the tongues knotted in nooses,
Tired of the silence used and useless,
These pens done gone and run out on me,
Dried themselves of all that is left,
So slit my wrists and write with blood,
Because that's all this really is anyways