Old tombs & velvet hearts
Drip from her tounge & fall apart
whle on his arm & from his heart
The novelist perfects his art
Screaming days & drugs of night
The coast it twists & fades from sight
Carving Cutting his words of pain
Placing them into his viens
Writing cries & living life
The Man exists by the knife
It's on his flesh & in his heart
This poet scribbles and skews his art