I'm no tragic hero, my suffering is not divine.
I live my life in the breaths between words, in the spaces dividing lines.
The silence of the grave isn't a symphony, just an echo of my home.
I've wrapped myself in delusions of grandeur, it's just a god complex.
I feel so boring, in this same routine.
When I play at chaos, it's a mask -- can't you see?
But I've already lost myself in it again.