infected and disastrous.

It breathes chaotic catastrophe,

it cries to be renewed.

Its tears are the color of anger,

they dry to form a scab.

To the touch, it's stiff and resilient,

underneath, the new skin breaths.

As outwardly cliche as it may seem,

yes, something under the surface says, "C'est la vie."

It is a circle, there is a plan,

dead skin will atrophy itself to start again.

Look closely at that open wound,

see past what covers the surface.

Underneath chaotic catastrophe,

creation takes the stage.

It's all been saved,

with the exception for the right parts.

When will we be new skin?

It's all bee seen,

with the exception for what could be.

When will we be new skin?

Fallacious cognitions

spewed from televisions

do mold our decisions.

So stop and take a look,

and you'll see what I see now.