While I tear the pictures of me,
I tear a distant memory,
One by one my past fades,
And with each picture comes a cut from a blade,
I wish there could be a picture from the soon to come,
So I could tear it apart and turn it into a gun,
I'll tear them cut them and burn the art,
All while doing the same and bleeding my heart,
A portrait of you comes into my sight,
Something now so dark used to be light,
I cry a tear of oil,
I don't burn you I bury you in the soil,
Taking apart my life piece my piece,
I'm just hoping this is my release. |
