What lies in the confides of these pages.
A black hole to capture an artist's rages.
In whatever form, pictures or words.
They always come down, constantly crashing in hoards.
Beware I say, of what you might see.
What could be my mind's eye, of what's truly me.
Written in books, bound by leather,
Caught in dream catcher strings to keep me out of the Ether.
Be careful I say, of what you might see.
What could me by mind's eye, of what's truly me...