How can somebody who is regarded as being so fantastically creative, destroy so much?
Perhaps it's not that I'm creative, perhaps it's just that I have a talent for picking up the all the jagged, crumbled pieces.

Nostalgic for familiar feelings and guilty pleasures,  still so keen on the awe-inspiring rush.
When you awaken in the morning with all that dried blood in your nose,  you wonder how much longer you have until life ceases.

Resisting the gruesome yearning for ripped flesh and the cold feeling of the blood gush.
How much longer can I persevere alone? How many more days do I have to survive till my quality of life is increased?

These emotions are weighing me down, beating me up, my heart is literally crushed.
I can see the rays of light peeking out behind the clouds, and I'm so terribly desperate for any sort of  peace.

Waiting and watching, begging for a sign that this world is even capable of being just.
I used to wait for you, because I knew you'd be there. Now it seems I'm just waiting for any form of a release.