and seams are ripped open again and again,
and you can't hide them or disguise them,
unless you cover them up with something thats just the same,
and it seems, that humans are guilty of this,
so much so, that half of them can't even find themselves,
under the stitches and patches, and artificial things.
words can be written over and over again,
and you know what? they'll never affect the world,
they'll never change a damn thing,
they'll disgust you and embrace you,
or thrill and intrigue you,
but they won't change you.
no one can change you,
or should be able to,
but in this haunted head of mind,
i am not human, and nor is anyone else,
they're just balls of clay,
shapeable and colorless, and empty.
and i...i see myself as some visionary,
but maybe i'm just crazy,
and i wonder if one day i'll die a martyr or a saint,
a god, a stranger, in love, alone,
or still just as insane,
i don't want to be abandoned but i don't want to be hurt,
by un-passionate, un-feeling blobs of clay.
I can see the sunset, and I can feel the sun,
but I do not feel one with myself,
and I am not happy with what I have become but,
I ask you to believe me,
and see life as a challenge that comes once,
and is decided at birth, at first breath,
will it make you, will it break you,
will you even be able to tell?