im ready to bury this memory
but it feels like you left with the best of me
all thats left is my art and this misery
quite like these paintings ill hang in a gallery
im whole and i need you to tear me apart
we crumble and fray but i still call it art
chipping this marble to pebbles and dust
a statue of cracks designed with disgust
you were canvas so pure that i ruined with paint
and im carving this altar like you were a saint
now im ready to bury this memory
but it feels like you left with the best of me
all thats left is my art and this misery
quite like these paintings ill hang in a gallery
youre rusted like iron, i thought you were ivory
stanzas of prose but i thought you were poetry
that was the irony, you were a symphony
i had no harmony and i was just company
theres no comfort
no solace
no feeling left but malice
now im ready to bury these memories
and ive come to find theres nothing left of me
im a shadow of a shell writing poetry
drowning myself in this anxiety
theres no comfort
no solace
no feeling left but malice
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