The doctor doesn't feel sorry,
and I admit neither do I.
I'm taking up a bed
for torturous threads,
and I'm trying to die,
while those in waiting
feel so much hurting.
He tells me of my liver,
News I wanted him to deliver,
This world is black and dead.
I will refuse another liver,
and my grief has not been said.
As I create and lay in my bed,
This world is purple poison
and my blades are still pouring
with enemies I have long bled.
But no joy or such happiness.
It makes me sick of who I became,
And the sickness has ruined my name,
and madness created my wicked game.