If I would burn these inks,
Rather keeping it in,
It would be useful to describe our awful deeds.

Tears are untied bundles,
In my face/crawling down my rusty cheek,
Grieves are illustrating its purpose,
And halt, it's not for me.

Our heads are stocks of unevenness,
Stalking and practising the devil's call,
Positivity we practice not
walking on the sinful aisle.

Realm of horrible things,
We see without fear,
Do without guilt/attempt or keep it in.

Stalked in our heads,
Are nightmares of depravity,
Or maybe not, something beautiful for ourselves.

Our minds are our tombs,
It buries us in silence,
And exposes us with naked and selfish notions.