“Oh, I am so ordinary.”
Is that what you see, right there in the mirror?
Can’t you be something more?
You think you know you.
That’s not what you do.
You invent different personalities.
You fabricate stories.
You ache to be loved.
That’s a silent cry of a lonely child.
Deep inside your heart, it almost drives you wild.
Their open hearts feed you more power.
For a while, you feel better.
Their sanity is sacrified upon your personal altar.
It’s a growing addiction.
You’re slowly drowning, digging a hole.
Are you ready to take your own fall?
The fabulist is dying to impress.
It’s such an endless, exhausting task.
Have you got enough masks?
Sooner or later, you’ll always need a new one.
By then, many will have been warned.
It’s time to ward off your intoxicating charm.
Too many have been harmed.
You should’ve given the real you time.
Why did you commit such hideous crimes?
Now piles of lies are all you’ve saved.
Go ahead, keep digging your own grave!