Your world is so small
It fits only yourself
And maybe a fraction of someone else
But when the pressure's on
It hurts to breathe
As your walls close in
But you can't fight back
No, you'll only fail
Your muscles are made of wax
Your armor, paper maché
Your weapons are sticks
Because you can't afford stones
Tiny heart
You're a paper tiger
As you fight
You rip and tear
And tape can't repair
You fight the Lion of Words
The Creator Script
Let His Holy Fire
Burn your sticks
Set aflame your paper maché and wax
Let Him graft His pages to you
Replace the ashen skin
Let Him bind the Truth to your soul
Tiny heart
Grow