Poetry is the language of dreamers,
Though I no longer dare to dream.
My nightmares are plagued with monsters,
And the most terrible is me.
For are they not the product of ideas
That manifest inside my mind?
For all things in our universe
Descend into chaos, Descend into madness, unglue, and unwind
And as my mind decays,
And my sense of self slips away,
A biological lobotomy
For reasons I can't say
But faith is of no comfort
Because, for all that I can tell
I'd still have probably lost my mind
As I burned in hell
And everything that we believe
Is that which we perceive as true,
And these perceptions, our convictions,
Our commitments to pursue
On a grain of sand, flowing perpetually
Through the endless void of space
Even if your body burns,
And your memories erase.
Truth is the currency of the dead,
And a burden on the living
So what truths do you hold in your heart
That are still left unforgiven?
What is the sum of the evil you've done?
Look at yourself. What have you become?
For I am my most fervent accuser,
And my war bears no winners or losers.
And as I look upon those trivial lives,
Squandered in pursuing a desire to be
I am reminded of my composition,
How, where, and why that I am positioned,
In that, which is composed partially of me.
But why is it we all submit
To the desires of forces that be?
For I can, and I will,
For I am willing to kill
For these freedoms that belong to me.