We determined our future in a game of M.A.S.H
but the outcome we could never measure,
and you know what they say about one person’s trash
it ends up being someone else’s treasure.
My eyes are black and blue,
bruising that came from you.
With nothing right to say and nothing left to do.
I sewed my mouth closed, next time I think I’ll use glue.
Her heart strings were pulled just too tight,
they would snap and break with any given pressure.
And she could never hit the notes just right,
but one person’s disdain is another person’s pleasure.
My eyes are black and blue,
bruising that make up shows right through.
With nothing right to say and nothing left to do.
We played every board game but never stopped with clue.
I’ve never been one for odd numbers
unless it’s the number seven.
Numerology really makes me wonder
is there a mathematical equation to heaven?
My birthdate became a date of rebirth
as every year I killed a part of myself,
it’s not that I believed myself to lack worth,
it was just a challenge to see if plastic happiness could bring health.
My eyes are black and blue,
representing every shade and hue.
Like a serene painting of morning dew.
I’ll keep spinning it until it becomes true.
“He was a painter who only painted in red.”
There’s that connection between art and bloodshed.
I hang all those pictures on the walls inside my head,
‘cause they’ll never match the colour of the room with my bed.
My eyes are black and blue,
but even the swelling can’t block my view.
With nothing right to say and nothing left to do.
I’ll have to accept there’s somethings you can’t construe.
