Less of a life, it is more of an institute,
With aspirations to stop breathe in punishment,
Leaving me "chronically absent",
In all the things you have been a Jobs Comforter,
Carelessly throwing care around like it's boundless,
Hopelessly I'm laying in a puddle of red worthlessness,
Lie in the street, embrace blood letters,
Writing these symbols, spending time better,
Better on my face.
Is that what you want for me?
Is this where I'm meant to be?
Spill me, Why God?
Spill Me, Hear me God!
Spill Me, Oh God!
Spill me, Where are you God!
And there, will be no second night.
So take my hand and hold it tight.
Tell me everything will be OK.
And I'll try to say good night,
But I choke on my regret.
And I gag on my last breathe.
Is this what you want for me?
Is this how it's meant to be?
With me laying here, sprawled out on the floor.
And you walking with him, but me you ignore.
There is a note, I wrote in blood letters.
I wrote all the symbols to make your time better.
Spend it on your face, reading what I've wrote.
When it's really meant to make you see,
What I gazed upon for the last five minutes of my life.
Nothing but red and Grey.
The pavement was so scary, covered in my blood.
