With thick strokes of my blood the pen puts down my thoughts, Pretending to run for cure, I secretly pray for more blood.
Over the echo of this silence I hear your voice saying my name. But deep down I know you are too busy to earn that fame
The pages of my notebook soak, then drenched in my blood. Thoughts came rushing like a devastating flood
That notebook is a bowl of redness holding my thoughts The pen trembles and the blood in it could shatter all.
I am a dark bowl, waiting to be filled. If I open myself now, I could drown in the blood.
I hurry home as though someone is there tied up in knots The silence collapses into my skin and says “These are your Phantom Thoughts”