When I was bored, I ripped apart
Bit's of books I could have written,
Paper castles in which I hid my heart.
I borrowed security, never getting
The full fortification, seemed so upsetting,
My dull fixation obstructing with obscurity
The migration of my maturity,
The words' constrained cremation,
The meanings' drained donation,
The tears' ascertained accusation,
My adjustment abstained from adaptation,
Now what's last is impurity,
And what's first was surety,
The stained satin allegation,
The twisted starvation,
In the overgrowth's application.
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