up until now i've always let my fatal urges win,

and this has slowly been poisoning me from within.

from time to time now, ever since then,

i must pour my poison out through the tip of a pen.

to remind myself why i'm here,

and of the deaths of all the people i've been,

so i don't repeat their fatal mistakes ever again.

up until now my insides have always been at war,

i feel weaker today than i did the day before.

and how long has breathing easy been such a chore?

the constant weight on my chest makes it hard to be sure.

these are my critical hours,

but i'm drawn to a time that seemed to mattered more,

and that's what i have to bleed onto this paper for.

up until now i've always nursed a secret wound

i had a remedy for it once, but i had to kill her too

like everything i love, she became a poison too soon

and sometimes i still miss her and the smell of her room

so using only paper and pen

i built the bitch one fucking hell of a tomb

and sometimes in dark dreams, i can still smell her perfume

up until now i've been the fading ghost of a liar,

behind listless eyes, conceiling a cold burning fire.

always burning down inside, i'm forever scarred and tired,

a refugee from a mentality i once admired.

and to keep the other lessons learned,

until i learn to stop playing with fire,

until the sources of all my pains have expired,

to shed the lingering affects of a state of mind retired,

i stay up late at night and just write until i'm too wired...

like inducing vomit so that i can

come back and snort more heroin

i expel my poison through a pen

and ingest more and do it again