Not the person who sees red,
Who rips the seams of me?
The crimson is metaphor,
It is the pain, not malice.
Blind eyes, lost inside your head
An illusion of being so free
An imaginary world that continues to grow.
Fold your hands and bow, you've won?
Prepare to reap the seeds you grow...
The whispers saying I hate you...
When did I declare war?
My hand extended in truce
With kindness, festered a sore.
The whispers not fired from my eyes.
Well you've made it,
Are you proud of the view,
Filled with darkness you omit
Smiles and false truths askew.
Fantasy still warm to your touch
Is the ice melting for you...