Stirring moods just like making cakes.
Tiring noons just like taking breaks.
Tearing up in the late of night.
Breaking down in the dawn of light.
Like a rope up in the skies,
Like a hope down in the dyes.
Dyeing my hands with dull colours,
Dying in days I've never been.
Like a knife straight up my neck,
Like a mice straight down my deck.
Nothing is clean, something is seen.
Spotted red dyes, spotted dead eyes.
Something I've decided, to end it prescribed.