writing isn't beautiful its suicidal stings.
Blame me. It was your fault. Set the blow, watch the impact. Burn the remnants. Say you lost them. Kill the on lookers. Murder the innocent. Mainstream. Look what you've fathered. The killers are the killed. The victims aren't but the past. Their existence has ended. You live in a blinding experience. A new race was spawned. In your presence of acceptance. One now realized. But has always been. They grow from your observation. Mimic every move. Praised for their likeness. These burdens, they'll win. What you've created will turn. Over power. The cycle continues. The lies never cease. Look down on me and show me what you've done.