Because in this world, your world’s restricted.
When curtains shine through blackness, we play and then we’re victim.
Every person out to get us.
Every person tries compassion?
It’s more than mere prediction.
There the serpent lies unchallenged,
But you whirl and try to damage, because you’re weak and your world’s afflicted.
But to no concern to you, that serpent turns into a worser type of dragon.
You’re hurt. Your mind abandons.
No service. Wires. Synapses.
The sadness morphs to scene addiction.
Your journey’s rite of passage.
Feel worthless. I have had it.
And addiction turns to habit.
Fervid. Decline to comment.
You persons can’t certainly try to fathom
What’s become or what’s to come, but you can read it in description.
The words are tiny, and they’re captioned.
Then you hurl up your prescriptions.
It’s tightly woven.
Mixture of ambition.
Has slowly earned its actions.
Artist dies with his work, and this model just burns inside the pageant.
It’s of worth, and it’s off-course.
The piercing pain pans in.
AND I want more.
Of course what’s written inside the diction are more than I could manage.
It’s the purpose.
And these conditions are perfect.
My mind is madness.
And remember, you can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness.