They call me a musician,
But all I do is philosophise on ideas. They call me a painter, But all I do is rape the canvas. I burn the body to raise up new standards. I wanted to create, to make, to build. But it was all destruction, a seasoned professional turning into a fool. I sympathised with losers like it was a winner’s game, but nothing was so perceptive as the hours disintegrating. They call me a saviour, But all I do is retrace old footsteps. They call me a delinquent, But all I do is summarise my feelings. I burn the temple to heighten the senses. I wanted to share, compare, and fill. But it was all emptiness, a burdened excuse for realising the truth. I distinguished the difference when all of it was the same, and nothing was so deceptive as the hours disintegrating.
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