Useless is the mind that turns and observes
Recognizing that reality is not what it seems
But what it's made to be
And that the other mannequins take their roles with pride and sincerity
Whereas mine was a role that was never meant to be seen
But then again
What good is philosophy
A consciousness that processes all these abstract thoughts with no true benefit
I am but a shadow –
I exist in this world, but I do not live in it
Happiness belongs to the innocent
The ignorant, the naive
Those who believe in the sanctity of society
And never question what it means
That we all carve masks to wear and proceed to deem
"This is a reflection of what's inside of me"
My mask blends in with the scenery
Hiding in plain view
I've peeked and learned a thing or two
Taking notes on what the others do
And finding what I mean to whom
Useless is he who can analyze beyond the superficial levels of one that needs to feel superior
Of one that smiles in facade behind alterior motives and hoping to appear to be in line with the spirits of the chosen dogma, sugar-coating their interiors
There is nothing kind in knowing
Only more questions begetting questions
Spiraling into the ever-darkened void of existential resistance and pounding against the temples of the peace at mind
There is only loneliness in pondering
And coldness in the heart of mine
So few are those who understand
And thus I turn to art
But my mind demands perfection
And my words can never satisfy
Nor the reader, the author, the lover
No matter how I try
Useless is the curse of mine.
