Bless be, By the horrors of the craft times three. Learning what needs to be said; Trying to figure out if your alive or dead. My heart stops at the thousandth beat; My pulse becomes weak. I try to stay strong and fight, But as the bodies lay at my feet I no longer have the right. Five-inch cuts lay upon my wrist; Go down the track not across the road to live in eternal bliss. My father told me it would not be right, to have someone celebrate my Death Rite. My mother told me I would be the one to commit, suicide, then I realized that rain wasnt Gods tears but his spit. I write stories on the way I live and how I came to be; there is only one person holding me back from dying and at the same time he lets me be free. His voice is soft his heart is warm but cold; Id rather live with him in Limbo than go down alone below. His heart is kind his words are gentle but at the same time just like mine; He sooths my cold heart and would wipe my tears as I cry. For the idiots who judge us and theyre the ones living a lie; Making us suffer is another reason to let them die. I see the blood upon his hands and smile as he laughs; the way it should be when we will meet at last. We had a riot where they fell, and watched them go into my eternal Hell. &<img src="http://www.boomspeed.com/starlight/bgban.gif"></center> <img src="http://www.boomspeed.com/starlight/g12.gif" border=0>
todeadtotype · Tue Jul 19, 2005 @ 09:14pm · 0 Comments |