What I'll do to take away,
the last 6 months of my life.
Was I born a beast astray,
A bird without flight?
I'm sick of darkened days
the bloodied of the knife.
I wish it had been my holiday
forever a ghost to future ways.
I'm a demon to all the rife,
I'm not proud of things I say.
I can no longer even cry,
I have become one who slays.
My hands of red I don't like.