Like a poet to his words,
My life is to a curse,
Each day, another verse.
As a singer loves her song,
My thoughts are in the wrong,
If wrong’s measured – it’s long.
If my body’s a canvas,
Then I guess I’m painting with knives…
In the deepest red,
Painting lines, delicate,
But the,
Colour’s running fast,
And it will not last,
Forever,
No I know that it won’t,
But I’ve lost hope.
