Your dead little soul

They pinned you down on a back-board by putting nails through your hands.
Then they took a razor and cut open your head.

Now stick a pin in your mind.
They all step back and call it art.

Standing alone.
Pitch black white floor.
It's okay, you'll die anyway.

your pulse is dead.
There's a blackout in your head.

Now into the shadows you are lead.
Here plays the song of the dead.

In which blood was shed.

A soul to stich.
On the devils kiss.

A dyed crimson wish.