Lucky are the ones who bleed,
colouring the world vividly
in scarlet love letters
to all the dreams and abandoned youth,
forsaken by the culture warriors.
My eyes are solemnly sworn
to piercing the skies with fiery passion,
yearning to break free from the mundane
and reach the divine realms
of star dust children dancing - laughing.
O but drums are played in my chest
to accompany the demons of self-destruction
that play my heart like an out of tune piano,
making neoclassical longings visualized
in a place of grey bleeding through.
O how lucky be the ones that bleed -
my colours are since long lost,
and the love letters have forgotten
how to rush out from my gushing fingertips
softly screaming drowning to fish.
And I breathe voids of curses and loss,
synchronized with all Armageddon:
I create nullified bonds torn to pieces
with the flying signs of my fingers aching -
trying to forget that I've forgotten how to live.
