The cracks within me, smile,
Burning tragedy away for a while.
Love would have been gentle
With your hands upon my fragile form.
I am a broken man,
With a bottle of anger in his hand,
As the cracks upon the bottle
Laugh and laugh.
Love is dutiful,
Love is beautiful,
When there are those to hold it in clearness.
Though, the bottle shows spots,
And within it
Is not the clarity of blue.
The pain is mere bliss,
The knowledge of me.
Love is a sickness,
Love has become a witness
To our sorry states.
For we are merely two cripples,
Who teach another
To walk, once more.
Like waves, we break, whenever we speak,
Like destruction, we break, whatever we wreak.