I am currently failing to feel a pulse
And I am shriveling into nothing
The thought of waking up to this cold world
Concerns me,
     About as much as the icy breeze

I grasp at straws that all turn to ashes
I drown deeper within all the madness
I have closed all the windows in my heart
But instead,
      Blood seeps through cracks in the floor

I am poorly designed, not just broken
Made prisoner by a mind that's outspoken
I am famished but I feast on nothing
Besides the pain,
     Pain that my heart's been serving

I am an octave below the sound of silence
I am a victim of my own violence
And the straight line I've been walking
Is finally curving,
     Curving into a circle that is far from perfect