A quiet stream
a flurried hush
Without a scream
as you lie dying

I need to try
to dress the wound
need not ask why
the wound is there

these self inflicted memories
are nothing but whispers
of past unfulfilled fantasies
how did they become weapons

We're all passed out on the floor
another lonely night
need not ask what came before
we all decided to die

I don't pretend to know
what it's like to use that knife
I tried once, and thought I could grow
But I threw it into the water

A quiet stream
a deadly blood rush
I cry and try to gleam
your true intentions