Here is my knife, my scalpel to be exact.
There is your body, your torso in the act.
To slice in the midst, and the sieves on your wrist.

Some want you whole, but I feed on the soul.
Your temple is numb, the reason why I succumb,
To the play of lies, and its mysterious ties.

Yet I keep my self sane, and trying without vain,
I just wish that the windows wouldn't pain.
But I see the tears rushing down like rain.

It cracks me up, in a bad bat of a pup.

Why you place your mask, and leave the trash in my cask.
It keeps me asking why, without a mind to give,
Advantage over the shy, which the latter is how I live.

Your game of tag I am no less than glad.
That it is done, in the hopes of a gun.
To the sky it will turn red.
A shot like a bird it will run, aimed highly at the sun.
Until we both are bled, to the ground each will be wed.