I want to carve away at the sculpture that is my mind,

And I want to sand the tree of my body;

I want leave and be forgotten,

I want to redecorate.


So i find water and plaster to sculpt late at night,

And i pick a new tree from the forest in the forgotten garden of my mind.

Running hands over wet clay,

Feeling the rough texture of wood in my palms,

I say to myself i won’t be the same

But hands fall into the usual routine,

Leaving the scars and bumps that have always been seen,

And the memories that are ingrained into my brain;

And i became the same person i’ve always been.


So i paint my body

With colours so bright the world would be jealous

Colours so bright that the sun tries to touch with it’s rays

The clay still looks the same except it doesn’t,

The scars and bumps still remain but they’re now shining in the sunrays.

The thing about paint is that it leaves room for mistakes.


Except i can’t paint my mind with colours as bright,

And as much as i’d like to, memories can’t be forgotten,

And i’m running out of paint;

Too busy concentrating on the parts that are in sight,

I’m left with only black and blue

And what’s the point of painting if it’ll just look the same as it used to?


The mold might leak through the cracks one day

But i painted so thick that it should stay,

But if it doesn’t,

I hope i have a new coat to keep me warm through the winter.


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