There’s nothing you could do to make it better, better.
Tunes spikes endorphins. Reading the lyrics are optional.
Barren messages in coatings of melted sugar.
Defeated by heat and evaporated into air.
It’s essence are then nothing ethereal.
I am in a constant rage, a never-ending battle with my eccentricity.
A sculpture attracting grey pigeons but entices none.
What can I ever offer that one wants to take?
Prodigies die as youth begins to shred into the abyss of unimportance.
If you listen closely, you can read between the lines.
et offeres tetum, non vis.
And there’s nothing you could do to make it better, better.