Words like these define me,
when I haven't got a name.
Disaster hits me silently,
it's such a clever little game.

I pretend I don't see reasons,
I neglect them, like all of my feelings.
Then I bury my words with my ashes,
dirt gets kicked on them as each person passes.

Don't mistake my trophy, for
some silly piece of art.
It's just a little delicate,
of stone, or, you might call it,
my heart.

The scars on my knuckles turn silver,
when I lie through the gaps in my teeth.
My eyes turn to that of a sinner,
when I find there's a secret to keep.

The twine over wrists is pathetic,
while a Raven just pecks at my feet.
I can't fathom that you'd think your clever,
while I sit here, and "praise" you, forever.