The Poet and the Painter of Souls

The creatures in his empty eyes are watching the moon.
Cuts on faded fingers that are following every thought.
Creating wallpaper flowers with bloodstained hands.
Writing down the feelings, asking all about the questions.
Pleading answers, screaming, scared for what they will tell.
Turn the lights out and hide away, all the eyes are on you.
Dreaming your nightmares as they are begging you to fall.
Staring with the eyes closed
And the view from there is frightening.

No don't try to figure it out.
This is not a suit that fits your fake.
Lay a razor in the hands of a broken heart.
Don't tell the tales that tells it all.

The walls are closing in, creeping closer and closer.
Shadows are raping another one in the hall.
Teardrops are falling from the eye of a fractured mind.
Alone beside the candles, that burned down so long ago.

Everything is words in a poet's mind.
And the teller of his tales, are deaf and blind.
Scratching the stains of this tragedy.
Carving another poem from his insanity.

No don't try to figure it out.
This is not a suit that fits your fake.
Lay a razor in the hands of a broken heart.
Don't tell the tales that tells it all.

The walls are closing in, creeping closer and closer.
Shadows are raping another one in the hall.
Teardrops are falling from the eye of a fractured mind.
Alone beside the candles, that burned down so long ago.