There's always a paper man

Delivering to the paperless man

Who's doing all they can

To make it out the can

But continues to fall again

And again

Until the rain floats from the glass

That separates the bold from the bronze and brass

But why must they listen to seeds that haven't sprouted

In the same soil that they're trying to grow from

In hope of something

In hopes of purple winds with changing seasons

In hopes that life will continue for them in the meadows

How quickly they forget about the open shadows

And they try

And try

Try hard not to cry

As they remember the time where they weren't afraid to die,

But all flowers bloom and wither under the same weather...

Thorns made of aluminum with the weight of a feather

And they cry and they cry,

Hoping just to pass on

The scissors

The blade of time morphing into heads

Of each individual that wishes they were dead

They hand them off to the next person

And watch as they cut the world into pieces

Then watch them float away in a facade...

On their own face...

The scissor man cries

Filled with blatant lies

Walking in white suits with black ties

While they watch how it slowly dies

In the hands of their own

Bleeding silver from a knife that's unknown

From a heart and a soul that's grown

Into bittersweet apples filled with spider webs

...

Mr. Scissorhands

Met the paper man

With paper hands

Who lives in a paper can

On his paper land

Made of paper where he can barely stand...

And cut cut cut

Is the sound to the ears

His life flashes before his eyes and now he's left in tears...

Mr Scissorhands...

With the scissor hands...