he who took my daughter now is my foe,
for this world is filled with sorrow and woe.
He just took her, out of my sight,
now i shall destroy him with all my might.
No longer do i hear music nor song,
for it's her i want, the one i long.
My brother won't help me,
so i'll take matters in my own hands,
for there will be no growth nor harvest in his greek lands.
I suspect my brother, the spirit of evil,
he always had eyes for her that sly little  devil.
My poor little goddess, she's probably crying,
i will go straight down to the land of the dying
I WILL get get her back, that i swear,
he shall challenge me if he dares.

You know how a person cuts to relieve their pain?
To rid the sorrows of their cruel reality.
To forget everything in their taunting lives.
To see the blood drip down forming a little pool of pain.
Well writers bleed too.
They may not cut but we are also hurting.
We feel the same pain you do.
The hurt and suffering.
The razor is my pen.
The paper is my arm.
And the writing is my bleeding.