This Is It (Tasted) 10/23/87

Cut upon my wrist
Is telling me what has occurred
The look upon your face
Is telling me what you have heard

Using all my energies
To try and write a note
Honey it's not your fault
Is all I ever wrote
Blood upon the pages
Keeps me from making sense
And that pit inside my stomach
Grows more and more immense

I just wanna go
This is it this is it
Please just let me go
This is it this is it

A festival of colors
I see only black and white
My mind is slipping from me
Sliding off into the night
The television calls me
Come on and turn the dial
This channel's overloaded
By at least a country mile
My hand is on the phone
Dial the number 911
In 10 minutes they were here
And now I never see the sun

I just wanna go
This is it this is it
Please just let me go
This is it this is it