LIES OF A POST-PUNK SYNTH SLAVE

Smoking Cigs while listening to post-punk.

What a way to die.

Sipping poisonous punch, staring at neon stars,

observing couples symblozing the synths

Did I accept or reject the lie

Honeslty I am not sure

My purpose was glory, my legacy was divine

But I threw it all away with a smirking sigh

The destination was deceitful

and now I'm stuck, aching for a return to sanity

But no matter how hard I try

I hear the same sounds, the same ideas, the same sins

begging me to triumph in brokenness

to resist every potent, captivating urge to fly.

What is it that people seek

when they pay for myths

and ask what and how and who but not why.

Why not use the night as a canvas of intellectual royalty

sparking thoughts that electrify creations that could rival those of God's

Instead, I wait and rapidly reuse, take and blindly buy.

Investing my immortal soul in temporal temptations

But Its late... most definitely tomorrow I will begin afresh.

If only I could see through my lie.