Blood stained carpet,

Faded once from the color,

Of (notsoinnocent) white,

To a sick and putrid yellow

From the ever-so-blinding,

Light of the thing to which we claim to owe life.

But who really knows,

Where do we come from?

There's an acrobat,

And he's dancing through my mind,

Or is it a she,

Who really knows?

Where did they come from?

To drown pain,

Is to find an excuse, to find an escape,

As alcohol contorts the heart,

And the drugs 'destroy your mind',

How much do we know,

How much more is there for us to find?

Who really knows the answers to all these damned questions?

Is there a heaven,

Its there a hell,

Why live your life,

Dying to find out,

Morbid yet, its all some live for,

If you live to die,

Then why live at all?