I picture you, the words spurt from my pen
each sentence scars the sickly, pallid page
I'm not sure if I want it all to end
on the desk, 'au revoir' to name and age

harsh angles smudge as spikes turn into swirls
brushstrokes burn the canvas as it faints
stab rainbows,one for every other girl
pale,skeletal whores disguised as saints

the words slice through me, clad in royal blue
clawing at me till I write them down
blood hurts yet flows, should I succumb to you?
or resist, implode and maybe drown?

Bliss,ecstasy- the flow just disappeared
Freud may have been onto something here