He started off with the perfect plan
To conform himself using a pad and pen
But when it came time to release himself to the world
It all crumbled due to lack of modern miracles
This face the one he sees in his mirror
It's a portrait of a man, a man with a skeleton figure
And a bottle that when put to his lips
Sends a kiss he won't miss that will take away all his bliss
Into a fire pit of memories
The only difference is that they don't turn to ash
Before he bleeds
He turned his back on the morals he was taught
And in return his mind was pushed by tragic thoughts