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.

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