We open our diary just to find pages filled with no words to be called our own,
Stolen from bathroom stalls in shopping malls,
where dead poets live.
Beeline to position,
Where curtains fall and lights surely glisten,
No sense of direction,
In crystallized form,
Shatter eight fold
You, deceiver from the same block.
Mug, the artist without a single thought.
Fall down.
All of the words are the same in this shameless party of monotony,
Where the voice fuels the flame for demand of the same old game,
In time they wither away,
The voice of a youth in decay,
Forgotten by the sands of time,
but remembered by a few on the john.
You, deceiver from the same block.
Mug, the artist without a single thought.
Fall down.
(If you want a piece of me, you'll have to use both hands)