Untitled

He and his band aid.
Looking swell.
Always needing a crutch.
Always needed that crush.

All his eggs in his inches.
Needs a map to get him there.
Sniffing out that one sure thing.
Smiling in security of warm blank-ettes familiar.

Tablecloths and rugs he fears.
Fakes solid ground in his cover art
Where who's story he tells is never his own
And the soul that he sells has yet to be born.

And he screams, "I believe in destiny."
And he screams, "I believe in this fate."
But he still won't let go of his hand
And that blue ball outside him won't wait.

Me and my band aid, it was.

Me and mine.