My life is like poetry without any rhythm
A lot like the modern ones, without any meaning
But then you read it again, force yourself to read
With every reading a layer peels off and you see.
You see the raw wound, meaningless hatred
That I have earned from friends and strangers
And then I became so proud of not being touched
Hide more all the scars and walk tall and arrogant.
My life is like the canvas in a posh New York apartment
Just colours scattered without any forms or shapes
And I call that impressionist, so damn escapist attitude
As I know I have no justification to my perversion
The lines bleed if you look hard and the shapes emerge
You just have to read and look hard enough at me
And you will see I have a rhythm and am a painting.
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