Did anything I ever write mean anything?
There is no emotion out of my jurisdiction
Every element of despair have been used
to exorcise what I never really understood
I'm not like the writers of the past
rather a bastard son of sarcasm
Did my poetry ever mean anything?
I live for no one but you're all a part of me
When I take my final bow in this life
will you all be there for me?
But the days will turn to night
Technology and war will still progress
Is there any reason to what I create?
Is it better to be forgotten than remembered?
Because such opinions have become
my own personal demons
They'll remain and such ideals will stain
the sad epitaph that for some reason
I love so much
because I am a cynical bastard