Youth is wasted on the young,
especially when you live between shadow and soul.
I drift here, a stranger in this space,
my days circling endlessly, a loop in the brain.
Some see life as nothing more than dead weight splendor,
each sunrise their daily sun goal to heal what they cannot describe.
But I’ve learned the truth—All my friends are plastic,
and it’s a free man’s revenge to watch them suffer in silence.
Each morning I rise to the deterioration of tomorrow’s existence;
you’ll know me by the quiet cut of my clothes, beware the patient man.
For still, I have a fear of living
when the bonds of love and trust twist inside a prism of deceit.
Man, solitary and cruel, laughs from afar as your mistakes are clearer with distance.
Could you not read my implicit content? It seemed so plain at times.
I endured your treachery as though it were something short of sainthood,
while you offered counsel laced with venom—throw yourself into pain. Really?
Dramatica, oh Dramatica, the name fits you well;
you wield words and other weapons
against those who once gave you everything.
Let the fallen rise again; life survives the insults,
and even the fire of hatred and ill will may fade.
One day, you will notice the trees bend south,
you will puzzle over our chalk dust scriptures
and finally see—we are the future bird,
charting a path you cannot follow.
Humans ruin everything; this truth stands in every age.
Malice grows ripe, deceit overflows.
So I changed rooms, changed scenery, but I’m still close.
You are forgotten but not forgiven.
And always, beneath what lies above is someone who watches every move.