Insane

I create. I destroy.

There is nothing more natural than recognizing the madness we breed — the most desperate, uncontrollable attempts to appear normal. And yet, I always collide with failure. Always fighting against what, deep down, might be my true path, my true curse. Still, I persist, only to realize there is no other road.

This is not love. It is insanity laid bare, savage and raw.

It is impossible, devoid of even the faintest respect. It twists desire into rejection, fondness into hatred, life into slow, rotting death.

Cursed be the moment I ever dared to try — for trying opens the cracks that lead straight into the abyss.

This is no love. It is a terminal disease.

A conspiracy of shadows. It fuels rage, devours the soul, snuffs out laughter, poisons every alliance. It locks you inside yourself, without pity, without escape.

I feel nothing but pity — pity for these fleeting spasms of clarity.

A blade so sharp it carves you apart at the slightest misstep, without a shred of mercy.

I am nothing but a prisoner of this madness. A myth. A dying echo. Perhaps there are no chapters left to tell. I would trade my soul for a flicker of knowing how to truly live.

Not like you — blind pigs gorging on darkness, small, pitiful creatures trapped in your circus of fake rights and wrongs, your prostituted pleasures, your canned and hollow joys.

I would trade my soul for a single moment without seeing this grotesque world choking around me — this handbook of ignorance you follow like a gospel.

Where I create, life blooms. It breathes color, it bleeds sweet perfumes, pure waters.

There, I plant.

From that soil, fragile shoots rise each day.

I separate the thorns, keep only what dazzles. And where I destroy, I do so without hesitation.

Just as it once shone, it falls cold and dead into darkness, stripped of the strength to ever rise again. I destroy every time madness tries to take root. I destroy every time lunacy crawls in.

I leave with nothing but the memories. I leave behind no path, no clues, no trail — only ruin.

A past best left to rot.

My eyes see, every day, the last page of another hollow, meaningless story.

And my eyes — have already seen your end.




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