Patience is not a virtue
When the world is pushing me into a vacuum
Who do I run to.
My future is doomed,
I slit my wrists and paint the room,
I should paint the sky instead,
It should be enough
When the world is pushing me into a vacuum
Who do I run to.
My future is doomed,
I slit my wrists and paint the room,
I should paint the sky instead,
It should be enough
For the litres I had,
And with both hands I bled,
Yes, its true what you read,
Like winter miss me
And with both hands I bled,
Yes, its true what you read,
Like winter miss me
When my green leaves are dead*
A poignant and evocative work suffused with an indelible sense of ennui.
Intense and picturesque.
Vivid and emotional