I flirted with death.
I flirted with loneliness.
I flirted with darkness.
I have always been filled with nothing more than a sheer thin smile,
A cup of coffee stuck in being warm to enjoy,
or cold enough to suck all of its flavors.
My ink bleeds death-
Either that or loneliness-
And I can't explain why,
It always just ends up with that.
I would write about life
And the sun on my paper just suddenly becomes bluer,
Then it turns into death-
Either that or loneliness.
I would write about love
And it turns into pain and the hurt,
Hurt from every lover's heart-
Either that or death.
Why, you must ask
But this writer isn't lonely,
Nor sad
She just turned into someone like that.
For darkness felt good to flirt with
For loneliness felt perfect to embrace yourself with
For death was something she wished to be with
One shall not talk about loneliness
For it swallows one deep, deep down there
In the blue sea
In the dark field
In the empty ceiling
One slouched on the floor
Not crying
Just slouching
Holding a pen
Trying to bleed
Bleed
Bleed
Bleed
There's still much ink left
But no more words to write
There's still much time on the clock
But no more things to do
There's still a song to dance
But no more someone to dance with
There's still much life in her eyes
But it's all about these three: loneliness, darkness, and death.
No more notes to dance
No more than a single cry