Modern Romanticism

The way that scorn lifts a needle

To thread my existence into shape,

To weave an unforeseen future,

Filled with great uncertainty,

Makes me hold a blade at my wrists,

Fills my eyes with the Earth's oceans,

Empties my heart of its contents

For something else to be grown,

Never me.

The world has long been gone from my soul,

The world has long turned itself into Hell,

While Heaven was swallowed up.

The youth I've turned into tragedy,

The laughter I've drunk,

The pain I've called my home,

These sequence of events,

The telling tale

Of something so musical

As the Devil to lash my back

With ever-more mutilation.

My eyes cry,

As Hell welcomes me

In its fiery arms.