Dark ideas float around my head
The id suspended from its breath; barely dead
They stir a black mist about my aura
And leave my existence, a mysterious
danger;
the box of Pandora
I don’t know whether my conscious is
right
I don’t whether these notions are
wrong
but their exhilarating evil creates
an arc light
illuminating my solitary song
I watch things from behind a black veil
my soul reading emotions in Braille
blind and still
everything’s become a dream
this poison mill
everything’s become surreal
disconnected, my physical being
lingers
but its alter ego electrifies the
tips of my fingers
my virtue slowly growing weaker
my vice is now a pleasure seeker
the words become etched
in this dream
where I exist
reminding me everything
is nothing
with a twist.
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