My blood is black, but that's all right,
Because I've learned to live with it,
And this inner hell inside my head,
And the sleeplessness whenever I go to bed.
But I still can't deal with people well,
And although I'm trying my best to learn...
I fear in the end that I will turn
To black just like my blood.
The blackness runs inside me deep,
Corrupt and evil and dark and dread.
Maybe if my life will end some day,
The pain and fear will end up dead, too.
But through this pain of my very own,
I still love my mother despite her flaws.
Snake, snake. Cobra, cobra...
Should I not love her despite her flaws?
And still, my soul once dry as dust
Which was a beach without a sea;
It's now balanced and comfortable there,
Not like the black that runs inside of me.
A rough intake of what I think that Crona's poem was. Not the best, but oh, well. :P