Every time I write I leave behind a part of my soul
Put before the world outside of my control
Displayed in the open for others amusement
And cordoned off like some sort of museum
My desires are unapproachable, don’t even try and touch them
You’ll only end up hurting yourself, for they’ve been sharpened
Fashioned into weapons that drive my life
Making me get up in the morning and causing much strife
Forced by evolution to become Darwin’s ideal
I’ve lost part of myself, and the pain is real.