Beneath the tinted red glass,
My heart bleeds sorrow,
The ink flows and dries,
On my skin and my wet bones.

Sins of the devil, words of a drunk poet,
Unforgivable, irredeemable.
The ink lies and glorifies,
The sadness and greatness of love,
Of a life the poet never really had.

Gallows of death couldn't hold me,
So I am set free to walk on this mud,
With my mind awake on this earth,
Everyday in misery, until my penance,
Is accepted by me.

I am the prisoner, yet I hold the key,
I feed myself filth,
And mock my own broken teeth.
Read me slowly, before the story dies too.