Lots of tiny lines, paper cuts in the skin
doodles on the page where the ink sets in
Draining out my blood these tattered lines
like cannon balls they hit my gut
and drop grenades in my mind
How will I ever find my blood
running through my veins again
like a freight train
when all this dead weight
holds me down
and makes me slumber
far too deeply?
Like dead animals in the woods
from their bones
tiny flowers creep
It's a sign of spring
and the tiny threads of creeping Jenny
cover the dry earth, until it rains.