My soul was crudely etched into a wall by unseen figures casually strolling through the universe on late night musings.
They forgot to add an element though, and so I have been searching east and west for whatever they might have missed.
They filled my lungs with self doubt and electric pulses of insecurity.
I have been trying to model a caricature of what they think I shouldn't be,
a lonely dust gathered blueprint of the actual me.
They filled my veins with flame and gave me causes without a name,
but I guess I don't mind.

All I know, all I dream...
is that my blood is made of chaotic words trying to make sense in the darkness.

And I want to show the world my open wounds.