He can't stop reminiscing a past that ain't his own,
A past where he took himself seriously.
He grips himself with determination,
He makes two from one and one,
He stood home, sat on bed, laid his head upon the pillow
To contemplate the ceiling as if there was something up there,
He sees nothing special, nothing worth his time.
He stares at himself in the mirror,
No desire to improve his muscles, no ill thoughts,
A mere reflection, nothing new, nothing unique,
So manic, so fearless, must be the perfect man,
But the perfect man would have found a better way
To not delve into his own petty problem.
A desperate man, he can't take a leap to escape the abyss
Nor does he think of leaving.
He put himself in a lot of trouble
To make his thoughts disappear like clouds,
Nothing left but screaming, traumatized atoms.
Outside the window, a land of false perfections,
Of false man, false hope, false tears of god
Washing away the last remaining goodness
In all the filthy misery.