Are you really dead if they still say your name?,
And I know you're leaving instead of you,
but I haven't thrived before.

And I pray that you know my name,
that they see me as a face,
and I know as your own,
dead because I love to be a mischievous,
and I'm a medical recreation.

And I know that you're not dead till your blood is paint,
and I know that your blood is forever paint.

Since the cornflakes have fallen on my drain,
I know it's not my fault,
but it feels that way.

And I still feel the marks pulling through my veins,
the tug of the line,
you're lacing by me,
your friends.

They've ripped out my organical body in the flame,
and I still really want to wish you the best.

I know you've always had it,
the worst, and I could name a thousand names that I would much rather want to get carried off in a heart.

And I would name all one thousand names that's spent,
and there's a chance I could see you again.

And I will kill all one thousand names.

It would be very bad that I could say goodbye to you,
my friend.