"Please don't"
You cry as the blood spills
That knife in your throat
Feels worse than the pills

The ones you took
For all those years
Will never suppress
The flow of tears

"Don't cry"
His whisper blocks the light
Senses weakening
But the words still bite

Sight a blur
But you can still see his face
Stained in your memory
Death turns to a race

His smile widens
With your last gasp
He leans in close with a
"You're not the last."

I'm no stranger to drugs.

I look young,
but I can't say the same for my lungs.
My eyes have seen some ****,
oh but they are always up for another hit.
Pupils are used to the dilation,
that comes with the apparitions.
And my nostrils are hallways,
always ready to lead me to a bright, jumpy day.

But there is no way of purchasing the greatest feeling, no type of currency.
There is no drug, no alcohol that compares to love and its potency.
Oh my, I wish I could tell you where to find it.
Hook you up with a dealer that can sell you a hit.
I would sell my soul to get a dime bag of that pure, untouched substance.
Put it directly in my veins, let it travel to my heart, feel the sustenance.

The truth is, I just want to feel alive.
I want to feel like pure ecstasy, all the time, every moment of my life.
I've lost that feeling given to us by the gods,
and will do anything to find it, against all odds.
Oh darling, oh dear give me what little you have left.
This life is cruel, and my addiction even more so, please come death.
Death, put a rest to my thirst.
But give me a taste first.

I'm no stranger to drugs.
But babygirl, I'm fienin' for your love.

Everything I touch,
Feels like a memory,
Of when you touched me,

Can I ask why you're still here,
Cluttering my mind,
Dominating my thoughts,
And making my body ache with longing,

Touch me,
Or walk away,

The choice is yours,

But I have no choice,

You have burrowed yourself under my skin,
And I can't find a knife sharp enough to,
Dig,
You,
Out.

calloused hearts and bleeding fingers
harmony only achieved by sacrifice
the pure must stain their porcelain shells
and the broken
will scatter the ashes
the springtime brings new birth
as the flowering genesis of uterine obsession
but black boots and harsh words
may destroy this new beginning

in life and death dichotomy
wandering nomadically through purgatory
searching for contentedness
and rejuvenating rebirth
only to find myself further imprinting
old footsteps
from past and present life