How could someone claim to be a voyuerist to his own choices
Employed as poison, I’m professionally a disappointment
Used to being toyed with as I’m pursed by my own avoidance, I used to shriek into the void but now concerned I’m far too noisy.
There comes a point where the grey majority saying join me, peusdo-peace that comes with obedience sorta seems alluring
So you play the role and oink along with the anointed
only ever summon the muses within the brief appointment

Confiding in another till I lost me
I’ve always sought acceptance from the wrong things
Auction off obsession for a small fee
Dead progression in a never-ending Pause screen
Monster in closet turn to skeleton with boss key
I find myself corrected by the wrong things
I try to follow everything they taught
But What happens when the void shrieks back?

Feed your voices to neuman till your kin recoil
Then repress them till it boils, to appease your foil
Abandon toil dear, in fear that you’ll appear annoying
who the fuck important perceives your art as a mere annoyance
Guess, Since a boy you’ve always felt a debt towards your peers, it’s sorta that you owe them your entire being for being there
Conflating agency and disloyalty but that isn’t fair, you air on side of screwing yourself in the name of showing care

Confiding in another till I lost me
I’ve always sought acceptance from the wrong things
Auction off obsession for a small fee
Dead progression in a neverending Pause screen
Monster in closet turn to skeleton with boss key
I find myself corrected by the wrong things
I try to follow everything they taught
But What happens to the void shrieks back?

The lab is desolate, a crypt of half experiments, each specimens attempting to teach the lesson I’m secular
It’s cause I don’t create for anybody’s benefit, so when I check accepted quests elect to ditch the sepulchre
Begrudgingly, my betterment second to social credit score,
I seek to quench the sourceless guilt thats part of my inherence
My mental health forever in a deficit, the maker died creationless
pretending that he don’t detect ‘them’ paging him

Confiding in another till I lost me
I’ve always sought acceptance from the wrong things
Auction off obsession for a small fee
Dead progression in a neverending Pause screen
Monster in closet turn to skeleton with boss key
I find myself corrected by the wrong things
I try to follow everything they taught
But What happens to the void shrieks back?

Artists asterisk, when inspiration overlaps, with absolutely zero percentage chance for a small distraction
A perfect storm my aura don’t often attract no more, in stasis on the landing pad but still receive Apollo’s call
and Huston ain’t responded for at least a couple months or so
soul controller feels controlled by forces he can’t hope to cull
So homes on cope patrol, still painting tweet the hazy fits
If both my folks to be believed, then this is just what aging is

objection

I’m used to feeling like someones possession, instead of a thing possessing an independent direction, I mimic the exploitation, I suffocate in the safety net,
defect on fabricated debt remain to stain the paper
So when the void shrieks back? Imma strike a conversation, reject a negative change and embrace the alienation for once,
Fuck a pistol imma stick my tongues, fulfil my service to the serpent in blood
Wassup?

Confiding in another till I lost me
I’ve always sought acceptance from the wrong things
Auction off obsession for a small fee
Dead progression in a neverending Pause screen
Monster in closet turn to skeleton with boss key
I find myself corrected by the wrong things
I try to follow everything they taught
But What happens to the void shrieks back?