It's not physical my minds mayhem It's so subtle
Lines and colors Textures Nothing beats this fear
Poetry becomes one line on lies and smiles

I don't want to be in that place A finished work of art Smooth, Polished in a cold stand I'd rather be a paper cut

I've written away from lines to be free in a black screen
Sheared Alive I Breathe Bleed Bled Woke
Nothing to say Your cheeks turned white New hope
You're dressed in white on an operating table
I drove you to the hospital