A little music box, free of scorn,
sits by itself, alone and worn...

Golden hair and clear blue eyes,
the pretty face that's full of lies...

Let's go for a ride,
not stay in and hide...

I laugh at your hair, your stupid little face...
A waste of air, a waste of space...

If there were such a thing, would we ever know?
Would our clothes look different...

As I lay me down to sleep,
I find I can't and simply weep...

Broken glass, a shattered smile,
open wounds a bloody pile...

It hurts to frown,
to always look down...

Cold, wet, never stopping.
Always changing, dripping, dropping...

Before me I see a pretty face,
It's pale and beautiful, full of grace...

You think that you care, you really do,
But what makes you believe I'd think twice about...

What is it about death, that scares us so much?
Is it because it's not palpable, or something we...