A closed door, locked inside.
An old razor, a rusty knife...
I live a life of broken dreams
this isn't what it seems...
It's been a while since my poetry
visited these dark chambers of my imprisoned...
I see the pain
It stabs me...
I hear the rain pouring down,
A lovely little melody in this town...
Rest in peace,
your blood on the street...
Forlorn figures
Obviously...
Today is a beautiful, mountain day
But my mind can't turn you away...
Outside my window
a man and his dog stroll by...
I feel myself slipping
I feel myself falling...
Standing on top of the mountain
the ocean under my feet...
But my wound is stubborn
And it doesn't want to be healed...