You see me as a dark passage you have to go through.
Leaving your fingerprints on my walls while trying to find your way out.
When you find the exit, you leave without looking back.

And I have to buy new paint each time...

Blankets don't keep away the loneliness.

We are works of art,
and we are walking museums.

Let's be careful who we display our broken pieces too.

As I visit him, filled with history that cannot be thrown away.
In his museum, he is there, at the centre, a piece of art.
But still only a statue...refusing to move.
Refusing to yield a warm touch.


But who is truly foolish?

I'm scared to commit...

I feel like I'm with holding parts that have been hurt by others.