Oh Heaven, I've made a mess,
that there is just no coming back from.
I've more than burnt bridges,
I've buried the bodies.
I've left a trail of half-hearted apologies,
from here to the west coast.
A dry trail of tears,
4 years in construction.
One, I crushed the skull,
with vast powers of literation.
One, I lit on fire,
with venemous words,
flammable with controversial diction.
And the last,
she suffered from a heart attack,
weakened by rumors of my
It's hard to cope with celebrity status,
even when it's all in your head,
but there's no mistaking the coroner's predictions,
that everyone who meets me ends up dead.
How many more corps morts,
must I step over?
How many more pumps of disinfectant
soap must I use to wash your blood from my right hand?
The answer is when this artist forgets how to crawl,
and realizes that he has to stand.