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.
Apr 15, 2025
Apr 15, 2025 at 10:04 AM UTC
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.
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