I'm picking the paint off the wall--
One piece, two piece now four,
Coutning the seconds till what?
What if? No. There's nothing there.
More flakes and more shakes,
find a picture I don't see anymore...
In a way it's fine, if fine is what's okay.
I confuse red paint for blood now,
as my finger nails come off...
And I lose my fingers in the gore.
How are? No. There's nothing there.
Biting the paint off the wall.
Seven hours now or has it been
good 'ol twenty-four?
What time? No. There's nothing there
I loose my pace; my teeth are pulling out
I realize how I've come undone
With nothing to pick, with nothing to chew
and wonder? No. There's nothing left to lose.
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