June 8, 2010
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(Hello 2 oclock, you scare me so
The hours tick and the rain drips fro)
Thoughts swirl, the meaning of life
Puncturing my breast with its sharp, cold knife
An eternal question begotten from a single drop of rain
That is the blood that flows through my vein
From the sky it falls cold red
Deep consequence come into my bed
Who is God? Or what? Or When?
My blood is made of the ink from my pen
Yet God exists in the hate and the beauty
In every breathe, in the call of duty
In my body, which spews forth black
Upon a blank page, this is God’s wrath
He is what makes you content in this nothingness world
He is what pulls out the passion when you’re curled
Stuck in the silence of the rolling thunder
He is the guilt that pulls you under
God is the fear and all the regret
(I’m still not asleep and this is what I get
So hello quarter to three
Bet your real glad to see me)
The rain which is my blood
Which is the ink

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