My veins poured ink. My mind is my canvas. I stood weary, with my pen For defense. I'm thoughtless, with Poems to give you: If that makes any sense. I've swam on the rooftops. Slept on the side of skyscrapers. I was perfectly understood. Which is imperfection at it's purest. I took eternities. And formed them into bleeding roses. Then watched them grow into beauty. Poet of evermore. I searched for truth, and found none. Hint: Your voice is a winter wind. Bitter; the heartbeat of my sins. Shattering love against my skin.