i often dwell; oh, how i dwell on death
when i was born my mother's callous grasp
denied my soul as though my very breath
could have been my first and final gasp
although denied, my unfed fantasies
which wanted me from the first day i lived
had failed to urge my wailing self to cease
and now i'm so afraid of all you'll give
see. i was never one to have control
and think i'm so pathetic for my heart
i wish you knew how much i feel unwhole
but i'll just sit right here and compose art
do you ever think like i do, love
is death the only thing you can think of?