The Life Of A Tortured Artist

I see a painting of a skeleton

Desperately dying to be thin;

I never want to eat food again

For my hands are so frail and delicate,

Would you love me if I was blind

Or would you love me if I was thinner?

For my eating disorder

Is truly a work of art

Oh where is my existence

When it's constantly being buried alive?

And my feelings are obscure

To the snarling masses

And sometimes I think I am too frail

For my own shadow...

I am tempted to be fat

Like I was before,

But what's the point in pleasing the masses

When I am unhappy?

Oh skeleton, skeleton

Do you see me bleed?

For my cup is never full

I am simple as a flower, yet vicious as a dove;

Will my wings carry me in despair?

For my mind is heavy

And my body is so frail

I struggle with eating, yet I really want bread

The talent I have is a struggle,

Oh wither the words

That I write on the wall

And trigger the doves

That I set free--

No mind is normal of any circumstance

For I am a tortured artist

Dancing on my grave,

And I am extremely hungry for anything,

Anything that can benefit my woes

For the painting of the skeleton triggers me,

For I am triggered all of the time;

It hurts knowing

That I want to be thin,

And even thinner would be best

I hate this society I'm living in

I want to die already--

For already is not soon enough

As the painting of a skeleton comes to life.