I smile, I laugh, with words I play;
Don’t you notice the things I behold?
Stealing those black, empty eyes from your gaze,
I show you all the bright colors of my soul.
For people here, ask them once,
No word they utter against me;
Only I know, with those stained hands of mine,
How I manage to come so clean.
Every bullet fired, reaches back home,
Wounds are turned to art;
They appreciate the masterpieces I make,
With the dark pieces of my heart.