Painting that shell covered in red
You can hear but you want to smell
How can you just go over there?
You try to say but you spit instead
Poor you... Poor you...
Oh poor poet
You feed of that
Oh poor painter
You live of that
You only have to pick up your pen
Shadows and her will appear again
You know art is all that you are
But you want more, and more you will have
Death
Dark, wet, and now
Die, she won't look back
Die, Philliphius, crying is alright
Crying is alright
