Cut my flesh and cut it into slivers
And twist them to a rose
I've become that fifth wheel of consciousness
Robert Smith turning 30 without ever having released an album
His musical passion, except muted choked and abandoned

I am the place where physics goes to die

I cannot prove who I think i am
I've read headlines about the ones who went off the rails

My organs have come together
To make something between art and happenstance
How confirmed your beauty is
And how subjective is the notion that I contain any at all