They say am a little Gothic,
Strange you see,
That I have a cold stare,
My eyes see through them,
Through their veins and their bad blood,
A queen whose crown is Embroided with dry bones,
She that feeds of darkness,
They know I sit on a ice cold throne,
That I am a cold stone,
Fearless,
But hey,
What’s so Gothic about the smell of their fears,
A stench of their trembling souls,
A taste of their Sour tears?
What’s so Gothic about my love for black,
Of the dead feelings that I harbour,
Of the cold and the dirty mind,
My addiction for the dreadful beats,
So what that I dance in the tombstones and arise when the dark arises,
That I outrun the monsters and dance better than the spirits,
That they tremble at the sight of me, her awesomeness,
That I can walk when all fall,
It ain’t my fault that darkness is afraid of me?
