Unborn Child

The brain is like the womb of artistic self.
There I am, cligning to the cortex, sucking on my thumb in foetal position.
Unborn. Immature. Unable to leave the nourishing guts protecting me.
Too frail to face the world, life and reality.

Yeah, just keep on sleeping!
Lungs full of cerebrospinal fluid
So you won't try to breath on your own
Or cry out.