My bathroom reeks of cigarettes,
My sink is filled with wine,
My kitchen table, a stack of bills
And overdue book fines.
This isolation is my poison,
This quiet is my hell.
I thrive on dreams of suicide
And other habits I can't tell.
The life of an artist, you see,
Is a life of sacrifice.
And though we did not choose this fate,
We still must pay the price.
People think we simply see
Hidden beauty in the world.
But we also see the demons at night
Seducing young boys and girls.
They're tempted by money and other things
The world tries to force in our minds.
And all the artist can do is sit, watch
And hope they come out alive.
For an artist already knows how it is
To live in a world where you choke
On poison and blood and *** and wine
And in the end, they still come out broke.
Yet we still live with a foolish hope
That one day when we're dead and gone,
Perhaps our art and perhaps our words
Will somehow carry on.
We believe once we're immortal
Everything will somehow be alright.
And I plan to be there someday--
If I can make it through the night.