Not corpses yet we rot

It's because we fail

To pay homage

To all those versions

Scattered parts of ourselves

That reside within

The wannabe singer

The artist and his muse

The trickster

And all parts battered down with scars

We repressed them

Promising to keep it under wraps

Not knowing we were digging graves
Of our own selves

With no one flower to give

Thus we rot

And hide when we cry

Cause maybe it's not us

But their ghosts trying to escape

For after they didn't get due respect,
The due homage?