They carve a distinguished picture,
Of their life story.
Using the tip of a razor,
It's drawn out on their body.
The resolution is planned out first,
With the plot being written last.
Because the final cut will end the curse,
And everyone puts their tale in the past.
Everyone cares when it's too late,
Screaming at one's crestfallen fate.
Tears flow down the horrified face,
As their heartbeat slows its once steady pace.
Cherry-red ink covers the hardwood floor,
A stained puddle proves breathing is no more.
If they had paid attention to the foreshadowing events of the course,
Maybe they wouldn't be grieving over a coffin full of remorse.
The victim was never heard, no matter what they did,
So everyone's lines were just wasted breath, once they close the lid.
The pictures are drawn underneath their arms,
Painting their problems with fresh red ink.
Not caring their art is a form of harm,
Their too busy at work to think.
Another chapter written for each slice,
After so many cuts, they soon lose count.
Because they've never been anything but nice,
Though everyone said they wouldn't amount.
Everyone cares when it's too late,
Screaming at one's crestfallen fate.
Tears flow down the horrified face,
As their heartbeat slows its once steady pace.
Cherry-red ink covers the hardwood floor,
A stained puddle proves breathing is no more.
If they had paid attention to the foreshadowing events of the course,
Maybe they wouldn't be grieving over a coffin full of remorse.
The victim was never heard, no matter what they did,
So everyone's lines were just wasted breath, once they close the lid.
The picture is losing color,
Everyone can see it fade.
Staring in disbelief at the horror,
As it could've been saved.
The work of art is now a broken frame,
Hidden away from the world's view.
Nobody will ever be able to paint it the same,
It was one of a kind and no one had a clue...
Everyone cares when it's too late,
Screaming at one's crestfallen fate.
Tears flow down the horrified face,
As their heartbeat slows its once steady pace.
Cherry-red ink covers the hardwood floor,
A stained puddle proves breathing is no more.
If they had paid attention to the foreshadowing events of the course,
Maybe they wouldn't be grieving over a coffin full of remorse.
The victim was never heard, no matter what they did,
So everyone's lines were just wasted breath, once they close the lid.
They carve a distinguished picture,
Of their life story.
Using the tip of a razor,
It's drawn out on their body...