Awaiting my murder from crows,
A legend is yet to be written,
Its on the lips of all those that see the grandeur of the passionate rage,
Standing at the cusp of greatest - Teetering back and forth unable to decide the path,
Feeling like at the top of a building surrounded by window - stifling the air of motions,
I smash beautiful things that makes the glorious rage rise to the top of my uncontrolled pain,
I'm but a moth attracted to the flame and willing to dive bomb the goal and hope to rise like a Phoenix,
The more that you love me the more I invoke distance,
Punish me for my actions I don't care anymore - cover the skin with my perfect red blood,
Whip the bad out of like it will do anything - maybe it will,
I'm just a man that seeks the coldness to melt away unfortunately it won't,
Hating the fact that I exist,
Beaten down, thrown away, it's okay I'm meant to be garbage, one time use like a single serving friend,
If I was alive in a different age I could venture to be a warrior and invoke Valhallan glory,
Failure is my only option but I refuse to accept it,
I give everything but you refuse to see that,
I fill my soul with the Crimson lust a red bitter that allows silence for the brief moments of ecstasy,
Death!
