Turning 27 next month.
Wondering if I'll join the gods.
Here in this room
I write my pretty little songs.
Wondering if they'll ever be heard.

Infecting me.
Need it just to breathe.
This sickness is killing me,
but without it there is no beauty.

Noble rot.
My agony becomes my art.

Reaper's knocking on my door.
My razors are spilled on the floor.
I'm my own worst enemy.
Death don't scare me.

Destroying me.
Creativity is my curse.
Rather be bitter.
Don't need to be sickly sweet.

Noble rot.
My agony becomes my art.

I'm burning at both ends.
Love to write, but I'm exhausted.
Lay me down to sleep.
In Hell I'll be in good company.

These bones are blooming like flower petals.
Beautiful and dead.
Purpose served.
Decay's the end.
Sweet like honey.
Sweet death.

Black velvet in my hands.
Make me feel sweet romance.
Kept me living all these years.
But I drop it on the floor.

Noble rot.
My agony becomes my art.

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