When your eyes fall hot and heavy
And the blood your scratches half exude you call the blood you're bleeding for the cruel world
Such minute whimpers don't deserve the verb
To bleed.
And you dig out the old songs, that made you angry,
And now just make you want to kill the chromosomes that made you.
But you're shouting at whitewashed walls
In a box
Insulated
And you know
You know
Where all this'll end
But there's no one to tell.
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