the blood violin

this isnt my work just so we are clear
i'll draw you a picture,
i'll draw it with a twist.
i'll draw it with a razor,
i'll draw it on my wrist.
if i do it correctly.
a red fountain will appear.
to take away my pain and wash away my fear"
 
biting keeps your words at bay

tending to the sores that stay

happiness is just a gash away

when i open a familiar scar

pain goes shooting like a star

comfort hasn't failed to follow so far...

and you might say it's self-indulgent

you might say its self-destructive

but, you see, it's more productive

than if i were to be healthy

& pens and penknives take the blame

crane my neck & scratch my name

but the ugly marks

are worth the momentary gain...

when i jab a sharpened object in

choirs of angels seem to sing

hymns of hate in memorandum

and you might say it's self-indulgent

and you might say it's self-destructive

but, you see, it's more productive

than if i were to be happy


and sappy songs about sex and cheating

bland accounts of two lovers meeting

make me want to give mankind a beating


and you might say it's self-destructive

but, you see, i'd kick the bucket

sixty times before i'd kick the habit


and as the skin rips off i cherish the revolting thought

 
that even if i quit

there's not a chance in hell i'd stop

and anyone can see the signs

mittens in the summertime

thank you for your pity, you are too kind

 
and you might say its self-inflicted

but you see that's contradictive

why on earth would anyone practice self destruction?

 
and pain opinions are sitcom feeding

they dont know that their minds are teething

makes me want to give mankind a beating

 
i'm tried bandages and sinking

i've tried gloves and even thinking

i've tried vaseline

i've tried everything

and no-one cares if your back is bleeding

they're concerned with their hair receding

looking back it was all maltreating

every thought that occurred misleading

 
makes me want to give myself a beating....”
 
 
Ask me where does Jesus lay,

On the edge of a razor blade.

And no, I’m not the anti-Christ

Even though I swear it’s right

That dreams lie where blood drips slow

Caressing freedom I feel it flow

My crudely distorted angry bliss

From life with death I choose to kiss

 
So where is your God?

Let me ask you this.

In times like these

With butchered wrists we miss.