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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 (Thanks to Andrew for these lyrics) From Letras Mania