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.
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