Too many lines floating in the air.
Too many dreams hidden in those eyes.
He must produce, he must puke.
Even if his work, he begins to despise.
Mechanizing those thoughts.
Making viral his nightmares.
Beautiful is his pseudo-pain,
Put forth as his mind dares.
But there's an end to some stories.
From blatant nothingness to glory.
Then as the applause begins to hurt his ears,
Into his lies he'll start to bury.
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