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.