Slitting Wrists

He sits alone in the cold dark room

Solitary warmth of the mothers womb

Doesn't know why he feels this way

Faded pictures of wasted days

The artwork he makes is all for you

Rusted blade slits and blood pours through

Lies and wishes away wasted years

Pouring past submersed in tears

Staring at eternity faced alone

The creeping dark rots to the bone

Claustrophobic but will not leave

Soul and scars in him are weaved

Cigarette burns down stains with ash

Adrenaline passed in a warming flash

Leaving could hard scars and emptyness

No one knows or couldn't care less

They cannot see inside his head

The relief is in the lying dead

They can only agree now it's too late

There is no passion in a world of hate

It's too late now passed from endless days

Have left the cold dark misery haze