My Death

I hear voices in my head they shout to me they make me mad once the quiet hits the pain has bled and only then (and only then) will the glass reflect the monster deep within. I know how badly I hurt myself, and a part of me smiles so sweet. The kindest gift bestowed upon my person from the tainted flesh of lucifer. And instead of empty and anger, the voices scream and bring me comfort for the pain I endure, turns me on all the more. So lest we forget the twisted facts of life, the miserable taste sweet onto my tongue, as the bread of life is ground to dust and the last little beat within the heart loses it's rush. I hear voices in my head they shout to me they make me mad, I cannot cry unto my arms, an angels song they once had me charmed. I do not ask for forgiveness, for I know that I must starve. You're pity only angers me for the time is not of the essence. The razor here is hurting me, from my own flesh I gratify. The last mornings dawn shall wake but when oh, when? If ever shall my eyes witness that blinding light, for now we must all lay within the shadows, miles and miles below that air. Yet we do not need other comforts cause a bed of pure hatred I will bear.