I don't have a name,
just a picture hung without a frame.
Dust at my corners;
what am I made of?
Blackened mud and
forbidden love.
I'm not the one that
you're thinking of;
I'm just the one that
you're picking up
when you need to feel
something real.
I been missing pieces
since we broke apart.
I better rehearse
and just play my part.
Notice how my pain
is a work of art?
Paint me all the colors
in your Mozart.
Even though in my soul
it's completely dark.