When I'm Gone

I'm sitting here on this windowsill,
Looking out into the horizon...
The sun has barely started to rise
and I blow one last puff of smoke into the scene...
Where are you now?
I read the words you write,
Wishing
and
Wishin
For someone to come to your Resuce.

And I look down at my hands
and my wrists
and my cuts...
Did these scars spur you
To peirce your lovely skin
and melt away your satisfaction with tears
and death...?

To die on the inside
To be alone in a world full of lovers
To feel the cold hearted weight of a bullet
In
Your
Brain...

And I look down at my hands
and my wrists
and my cuts...
Did my violence spur you
To come out the way you did
and melt away your innocence with lust
and lies...?

So I crawl down from this windowsill
Into a house supposedly my home
Yet the feeling of being alone
Remains countless miles away...
Where my heart aches to hold you
Where my soul bares to show you
Where family should be, Oh how I wish you could see...

So you crawl down from a similar spot
Into a house supposedly your home
Yet the feeling of being alone
Remains countless miles away...
Where your heart aches to be mended,
Where your soul bares to show us
Where family should be, and you wish everyone could see...


And you look down at your hands
and your wrists
and your cuts...
Did growing up watching me spur you to face
reality?
and melt into the facist world
of blood and guts and glory
in tramautizing yourself
with sensless love?

...and from this windowsill
I stare down at my hands
and my wrists
and our cuts...
What can one do to fix what is wrong
When one hasn't been much a figure

all

along?