the piles of voices in lunatic style
no matter my years of packing it down
if poured on the streets it back up traffic for miles
no natter how hard i push pieces in, darkness still seeps out
denial fumes of sappross force me to push people away
for if they got close enough to see the vile inside
every single relationship would fray
the hiding began with each brick of my wall
growing so much that i walked into it a time or two
but in doing so the bags that make up my barriers
are smelling of egos too
the junk that clutters
can no longer be forced down
the time has come to kick it to the curb
so that my old self is no longer around
