Does the inside matter if the outside isn’t a picture?
Because you can’t paint what’s on the inside
No matter how much you put out, it doesn’t cover the grotesque cover
Beauty is truly an outside feature to those who are blind
Picking and prodding at the little happiness that peaks
Until there’s none left and sorrow takes over
So pick at the pieces of the outside until the beauty within is gone
That beauty was never published, never shared, just buried deep within
And let your demons claw and shred that forgotten piece of yourself
Now you lost that strength and trudge through the trials with a blank face
Now all you see is the undeveloped cocoon and the aborted butterfly that never saw the sun