I take a pen
I cut my wrists and bleed
My life flows onto the page
Bright red, so terribly wonderful
The mountainous peaks and unending vales of my pysche
Stretch out in a flowing river of ink
Of blood
Of my immortal soul
Of me.
I paint the portrait with hues that can not be seen
And sing with the silent voice of trees that have since been felled.
I pull you in, I take you down
I want you to drown in an ocean of ink and paper,
To become lost in the borderless forests cultivated within my mind
I want to pull you into my skull,
So you can see me how I truly am.
I want you to know how truly alive I am.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
I take a pen
I cut my wrists and bleed
My life flows onto the page
Bright red, so terribly wonderful
The mountainous peaks and unending vales of my pysche
Stretch out in a flowing river of ink
Of blood
Of my immortal soul
Of me.
I paint the portrait with hues that can not be seen
And sing with the silent voice of trees that have since been felled.
I pull you in, I take you down
I want you to drown in an ocean of ink and paper,
To become lost in the borderless forests cultivated within my mind
I want to pull you into my skull,
So you can see me how I truly am.
I want you to know how truly alive I am.
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