Phonographic Walls

My walls look like a phonograph, The words on my walls flow threw. I look to the sky, my body naked, weeping of the pain that I have endured. My wings are not angel wings, I have no halo above my head. But instead I have devilish fairy wings. They hold me down like bricks chained to my ankles. My walls are like a phonograph, They tell my story. But if you listen real close, You can hear me being torn apart one feather at a time. Eventually I will bleed to death, And all you will hear is the silence threw the phonograph.