Has my skull ever really been a home to you?
Or was it too cold, too surreal?
You weren't complete, neither were my masterpieces.
I couldn't kidnap enough of you.
It was more of a cage than a home,
an utopia for me nevertheless, mine alone.
Hours upon hours I've spended on you.
An addiction, art, or my fall?
Aug 31, 2019
Aug 31, 2019 at 7:02 PM UTC
Has my skull ever really been a home to you?
Or was it too cold, too surreal?
You weren't complete, neither were my masterpieces.
I couldn't kidnap enough of you.
It was more of a cage than a home,
an utopia for me nevertheless, mine alone.
Hours upon hours I've spended on you.
An addiction, art, or my fall?
I can't even remember all of you.
