Another crumpled sheet thrown on the floor,
Another shout, a thud, because she can't get rid of the sore,
The deaf poem of her broken heart is maybe too degraded,
She's not able to write it down, her soul is jaded,
The phrases of her life are burning on the inside,
A description about the moment when her dreams died,
It's smashing her heart and her tired mind.
From nowhere she hears a sardonic voice,
"- You're not able to hear the words anymore, in fact you never really did,
You have shed some scraps on pages, lies your soul to feed with",
She covered her ears, closed her eyes,
To stop hearing the demonic voice she tries,
"- Shut up!" she yelled again like every day,
It's impossible to escape this abomination that came in her way.
Maybe this is an already lost fight,
A decommissioned road to the healing light,
Her pathetic flounder makes no sense,
She's laying on the floor holding a broken pen.
Torn by the fall from grace,
She will leave behind just a bloody trace,
No big words, heroic deeds,
She's maybe too selfish, a new soul she thinks she needs.
What a great disclosure,
I think I recognize those scarred eyes,
Those whacked whishes, lost in the ocean of despair and lies.
I gave her a hand,
But it seems like she won't get up,
Her eyes are dry and dead,
She's laying in a pool of blood,
In her chest the broken pen is stuck.
I breathe deep inside, because her face clearly now I see,
I can't believe, because real it cannot be,
But I'm not dead, am I?
Because the bruised corpse is me