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a stain on the shirt called life
a fiery rage fills the old woman's heart
she is blinded to her own selfish actions
she only knows comfort in psychotic ways
she is angry and spewing hurtful plays.
pushing and pulling herself through the ones
the ones she wickedly massacres and slays.
she is accustomed to what it feels so betrayed
the slews of memories piling up on
the very soul within she stays
she is growing duller by the days
and feeling colder as she lays
she wonders if her heart will freeze
punished by greedy and selfish men
she's becoming dull and dreary
her eyes don't even weep or get teary
she has come to expect that they all wish to hurt
she has accepted her place
living well in dirt
so much so she goes by Mrs mud
so much for the once blooming rose.
now just a dried up shriveled bud
the insects have drained her life
sucked the blood straight from her veins.
she doesn't get angry at the ticks
no use to complain
just a stain
she's just a stain on the shirt called life
she is blinded to her own selfish actions
she only knows comfort in psychotic ways
she is angry and spewing hurtful plays.
pushing and pulling herself through the ones
the ones she wickedly massacres and slays.
she is accustomed to what it feels so betrayed
the slews of memories piling up on
the very soul within she stays
she is growing duller by the days
and feeling colder as she lays
she wonders if her heart will freeze
punished by greedy and selfish men
she's becoming dull and dreary
her eyes don't even weep or get teary
she has come to expect that they all wish to hurt
she has accepted her place
living well in dirt
so much so she goes by Mrs mud
so much for the once blooming rose.
now just a dried up shriveled bud
the insects have drained her life
sucked the blood straight from her veins.
she doesn't get angry at the ticks
no use to complain
just a stain
she's just a stain on the shirt called life
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