My body's an artwork of scars, a nice work of scars.
Painted in black and blue bruises, these bruises cover me.
I keep on losing the better parts of me, finding the worst parts of me.
These days are the worst days, used to have better days.
Now I'm all twisted--burned and buried under my ground, lying in my grave.
"The days are growing longer, our breaths shorter.
The wind brushes and paints over the bruises that scar us.
Save us now. Kill us now," they thought while lying in the catacombs.
Who's left to save us?
We all had better days.
Now all we have are bloody days.
We are all lying in our graves remembering the days when our bodies weren't artworks of scars,very nice works of scars.
When we weren't painted in black and blue bruises, covered in black and blue bruises.
