constantly creating worlds, as delicate and beautiful as paper,
strokes of ink scrawled all over that dissolve in the sun
and get set on fire,
i lost the addresses and now I'm a creature of a  poem-tainted new world,
rotting in the sun and constantly setting my mind on fire
recycling the dead universes, I was being strung along
Its hard to believe that these places were my homes when now they just drift through my mind and come in my dreams
if i went back there i would probably break down crying
i don't belong there anymore
it hurts