I don’t think it’s from the heart anymore,
Writing or love or anything.
Diagnosed with greatest of all time syndrome,
But it’s not from me,
Too much winning makes people expect way more,
Till I’m panting begging for mercy from the floor.
Real writing doesn’t sell,
But I can’t write vague ideas and modern morals forever.
Bring me back,
Because I’m on the brink,
Of being somebody out of touch,
Either your hero,
Or somebody you don’t give a second look.