It's the journey within that cracks open the shell without
Splitting open a sealed perfection only meant to be an accessory
More than that, it now became living art, a walking melody
But little it knows the bigger it's meaning, it picks at it's every crack
So miserable, so blinded, hard to keep something so broken intact
Walking mayhem, it blames the world, a shattered ID running amok
How must it ever see its beauty if it destroys the witnesses that look
A classical tell of a an art piece that made its own price
When if it accepted it's flawed, it would have been that, but twice
Now It knows not what it should, but what it assumes the world is
Forever trapped in its head, a place for the dead, art corpse-fed
And until there's nothing to destroy, it'll continue but then
It will see what a beautiful catastrophe it's made In the end.
Art that made art, painted with the anger of a misunderstanding
Art can't see that it's art, so it made art until it saw what it tore apart...