You've fallen. You've gotten bruised,
and a little cut up.
The blood feels tight and hot,
like the poison that fills the cup.

Flesh ripped, hearts gripped.
The sound from the splash as from your finger blood drips

You once reached for help, you once begged for a hand.
But they just walked by and left you a beaten, bleeding man.

Fallen down, passed around
Lying there wounded on the ground.

Why won't it stop? Why won't it heal?
The wound keeps going like trains on tracks of steel.

Don't know what to do.
Don't know where to go.
So you just sit there and watch the flow.

It's soothing.
It's fading.
The pain subsides as your eyes begin jading.

You don't mind anymore.
The pain's gone away, leaving behind beautiful crimson art.
Your paint soaks in and tattoos the ground,
but the paint doesn't stop as it pulses from your heart.

You've given up the begging,
and you've given up the pleading.
So now you're happy...
..as you sit there bare... and bleeding.