Split ends

I open my box, hang my hat, and walked right in. 

I moonwalk backwards, playing jazz hands into sin.

When I finally end all of this,

is when it all really begins.

Making tempers flare is what makes me grin. 

My life always seems to be a chalked outline of a man drawn with a charcoal grim. 

A man who died as a kid. 

A diamond in the ruff, perfectly hid. 

Only the ghosts know what I truly did. 

For I will never rule, more built to play the fool, who dies for killing the king. 

So I walk into the cracks of a crevice for a seam to fit in. 

Adopted to an attitude like this, keeps this b*****d, fatherless.

And what of my read wrists of red? with blood that still persist.

Question this? and still exist? 

To a thought, oh so so effortless.

To be, or be so so empty? 

Among all of this, like a morbid gift, I realize that I can no longer feel the world spin.

and just like that it all ends

Just as fast at it beings

Thee's end. 

by the unknown sith 

Author's Note

I am not your norm, more like Norman Bates.
I dig in dusty crates for an ancient rhyme that entertain my mind and help me lose track of time, this I say to the voices in my head "is my true crime".