The night betrays the day, as you betry the living.
You continue on living with a bullet in your head.
You're not a vampire, nor zombie, not even a ghost, but whatever you are, you're what I fear most.
Walking amongst the shawdows, touching every grave, thinking of the life they gave.
Yet you continue to walk, with your abused skin.
I question if you're an angel or a spawn if sin.
Your body, a history of anguish and pain.
Out of all things crazy, you seem rather sane.
Though troubled, with depression in your eyes, you make it alone, with no family ties.
Sometimes I feel sorry for the creature you are; you could bleed forever and it just be a scar.
I don't know of your age, you seem an immortal man.
Your appreance is nothing compared to your life span.
On your wrists I see gashes, an attempt to end it all.
But for some reason death won't take your call.
You're the depressing tale of an immortal man, who trys to take his life in everyway he can.