Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Always Morbid

There's nothing wrong.
It's only wretched-wretched guilt.
And I even made it in time.
Nothing is wrong.
Nothing is wrong.
Bury the doubt deeper.
And dig out the truth.
Except, it hurts.
But nothing is wrong.
And nothing is right.
And stainless tears are no better than blood.
What use is it to the canvas to know the pain, but have nothing to prove that it was real?

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