The Flaky Derelict

Of masks, monsters and demons caged in my head.

Murderer: The fine line between music and artistry

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What am I?

Who am I?

Why am I here?



Why are the stars brightest near the cracking dawn?

How is this relevant?

Is anything?

Why do I give an everliving damn?

What is it I see in the mirror?

Is it a what or a who?

Why is the blade unsheathed?

What is this hole in my chest?

Who put the the knife in its final resting place?

Where is the promised pain?

Where are the promised lands?

Why is his face familiar?

Where is the expected madness?

Where is the sadness that follows?

Where is the luxury of misery?

Why am I smiling?

What the eternal hell is he?

Who is he?

Why is he?

Is he I as I am he?

How did I wear him and forgot who am I?

Are these questions or answers to other questions?

I hate it when people do that.

Yours seamlessly,





Author: Zeus

I am the grey area, everything by choice and nothingness by choice, wherein everything is possible as it is improbable.

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