I'd never want my life to be a written book.
(By someone else, distant and unaware)
I know what goes around,
In the sea where I drown.
Me and only myself.
My head is the pen
And my skin is the paper,
Writing with my actions
As ink on a blank white page.
To be aware and to realize,
I'm not filling my years up inside a cage.
I am the writer who writes a future much brighter.
I am the utopian,
Truth is buried and far.
We are all wasting our beautiful youth,
Missing out the brightness hidden inside of us.
How could we ever expect to realize ourselves?
The pain has left nothing but steam,
That covers my eyes up,
Keeping me from seeing the truth.
Deaf and blind,
I hold myself tight to my inspiration
That guides me through the ruins of my conscience.
Despising myself because I sing of disgrace.
To not get lost,
I'll follow you, as a moth follows the light,
I'll get burnt.
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