This is how depression kills |
It's eerie, something terrible is lurking, Not the shadow of death. No, not his shadow, this is darker. Don't you touch it, it'd stain your hands. This is with claws of a hungry witch, Ravenous and bereaved, her wails sound like laughs Don't you go near, she'll slash through your skin. Scary and scarred. Her wounds boil on her skin But she dances to whispers under the half moon. With dried blood on her teeth she goes through hearts. Her laughs, Sounds like hundreds of witches celebrating. Take her home And her blood would foam Her style is different. She takes her vessel And makes it die by its own hands After she'd sucked it dry. Her vessel, She paints with blood She eats the heart when no one is looking She heats the head when it's all clear She blocks the ears and the eyes And she makes the vessel die of hunger and thirst. This witch, this dark old witch is not without a name She chants praises of her dark victory. The vessel may leave a note, family or friends In tears. They say it's suicide. They don't know, but we do; We saw the red painting, we heard the chants. It may tell of love untold Or of hatred that can't behold another Erase! No eraser can erase the very painting of this witch What's going on here? That's the question, but we know even when you don't For she has suckled away a million hearts and she counts on! She counts on, and on the ones on whom people count. This witch, her name we have come to tell. We told it in whispers, but now we'd shout, We'd shout because it's bitten more of us. Yes! We would shout her name in a myriad voices Voices that could arouse the waves of the sea Her name is a fire on our very tongues. How do we call it without burning our lungs? How do we shout it without burning down our houses? Albeit we would burn, we would tell! We would hold hands, and we would shout, We would love and let unity be our mercury. Never let her in. We love you! |