My Soul bleeds of Childhood, once rich and fulfilling. Yanked from my existence with a diluted expression of nonchalance. The years stretch the moments, ignoring their intimacy, and unending value.
My Soul bleeds upon the Present, so stale and unaffected. Every moment a photo, faded with embers and dust. I desperately try to grasp them together, but they crumble through my fingers, forever gone.
My Soul bleeds Anger, thick, with resolve. For those who torment me with ignorant rantings, contained within their spews of verbal diarrhea.
My Soul bleeds through Needles, long and foreboding. My last resolve from the omnipresent Harbinger of Death.