every time i put pen to paper
the picture i draw is me
the story i tell is mine
every brushstroke on canvas is a shard of my vanitys mirror
every face i see is but a passing reflection
only to fade out with time and distance
i am the mirror
permanent and self contained
every lie i tell
every kiss i steal from innocent lips
every thought that drifts through my absent mind
brings me closer
feeding flames with costly fuel
(or is it fodder?)
all that i touch, i destroy
the sole inhabitant of a disposable world
all for my convenience
all for my comfort
all for my pleasure
so why am i so fucking miserable?
what have i become?
what is this?
why is this?
who am i?
whats the point?
why am i?