My writing is an art form that you will never truly see.
I can read you excerpts, though I choose to omit parts
The real parts that you just can’t swallow
Just can’t digest or fully understand
For I, like many others, speak Truth.
Truth unknown to the lowly peons, the sheeple of planet Earth.
You absorb information through loopy fun straws
Call mass-produced culture your own
Like sponges you soak this up
And roam the land with a sense of entitlement.
No, my writing is an art form that you will never truly see
Because you’ll bastardize it, bend it on one knee
While it begs for validation that it doesn’t really need.
No, you’ll never see it. Not even when I’m dead