Everything I have is marred by splotches of colour. The stains of where I’ve been are so painfully plain. It crusts the scarred surface of skin. If I peel it away, it bleeds. You say you can’t live without me? Well I can’t bear to live with you.
The colour of you tried to hide my scars, And now all I do is pick at the scabs. Trying to find what was real. Was anything real? I loved you and I would’ve done anything for you. That’s part of my problem. Isn’t it?
The past is always in the future, Just regrets and memories. A twisted palette of gore and blue. If I tore my flesh, Could I paint something true? Or would it still be stained by you?
A roti, is a flat round bread, so, we are almost there, time for a baker to pay tribute to Luciana Pavarotti di Modena, besides, it was the profession of his father, who it was, that yeasted this magnificent tenor.
