Push me up the wall
Or up or an iron grid
Treating me like dirt,
Clean me off like spit.
I may lie on the cold floor of NYC
Though dead , I see what others don't see.
Through death do I realize , you're never there for me.
Through death I realize , how much you toyed with me.
I desire the one thing that I cannot have,
With my hands on your face , I despair.
Now , that clock's hands are at its highest.
I'll make the art of death at its finest.
