I Admit

Paint cloaks my eyes, I cannot see, what it is, I wish to be.



We're the ones that make bonfires of locked souls in infinite passion.



It makes our hands truly cold--coldblooded.



 



Humans can't see where pretty lines of verses in songs came to be.



I tend to see the faith in the fallen times of cities."Why is that?"



 



I admit I'm quite clumsy but I won't spill my heart.



 



Is it stealing from the giving? Or giving to the stealing?



Are we killing all the music?



Or burning bridges for a few brief moments of false warmth?



What do you have to say for yourself?



 



I gaze into your eyes,



Telling you stories of the galaxies I see within them,



Swirls and emptiness.



 



Dying in the upward spiral, living in the downward spiral.



This solemn silence is a million words long yet all cut mute.



Help me claw away to the surface.



 



This art form we create is beautiful and invalid.



I guess I'm a footnote in your life,



Living tied, locked, in a cage made of paint.



I'm trapped within your walls of opinion.