Probably one of my oldest songs that I still play. I wrote it about five minutes before my first gig.

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It pretty much has a zillion titles and I hate all of them!!

Your every wound and every pore bleed flowers,
Falling from the sky like floating seashells,
Smashing through the crying ocean,
sinking to the sand,
Your becoming seasalt,
clean as crystal,
clear as fallen snow

And you hated how I'd follow all your sidestrokes
When I'd want to find your fragrant trails of seaweed, I just wanted to know the reason
for your bleeding, why must you keep
your singing soul from me?


And blood will bloom from every wound
like rosebuds as I try to paint
the colors in your mind
And I tried so hard but I ended
up with nothing but an empty canvas
and veins drier than dry,

Oh you raped your muse and you burried her
away from prying eyes and I just want
a little glimmer from your stride,
You consumed the world, concealed
the truth and spat back all the lies
And now I'm rich, I swear I'm rich,
filled with empty canvases
that should be holding paintings of you.