Everynight I shutter in my room,
The chill that runs through my veins is like ice and my skin teh color of marroon.
My eyes turn black at the feeling of the weather,
And my lips shrink by the thought of wearing a sweater.
So I sit here on my bed writing this piece of crap,
Just to get some attention from this commputer in my lap.
So don't think Im emo, and don't think I'm goth,
Or soon you'll feel the same; and you'll be so cold you'll need chicken broth.