Left in a corner are your writings,
Few venture to find out the dark,
But some read it and repulse,
They don't understand your cut,
Nor your eyes or heart,
Left on the cliff to drop,
For the fish to eat,
And people to stare,
Hock him up and eat him bare,
Is it a cold that froze the ice we took?
Or the words we ripped up in front of you,
Maybe we are the banshees calling your last call,
Or the eyes that cry before a fall,
Maybe we are nothing-just inspiration,
For a world you gave up on years ago,
And I don't think like you,
You know that,
A coffee gone cold,
A sarcastic laugh,
Blood upon the T.V
Yet you don't even look,
You have seen it all before.
And again and again, so over shock,
I can't write the words or pain,
Yet I try each and every day,
But it shall never play,
Leave on the record,
And introduce another day,
Wait for the banshee,
And for the shadows that may.
