Existence.exe

 
Who can kill what wasn’t created? I just wish an angel would come forth,
But in actuality the better vibe was a demon to show me my worth,
Though I hold this hollow Death Note, my name is the only thing you’ll see wrote,
I do not do politics, I do not vote, I only laugh at the razor being held at my throat,
The loss of my sanity, I’m rewriting history, redefining insanity.

I’m the king of the cursed, the architect of my pain,
Sisyphus reincarnated, but I thrive in the strain.
The boulders I carry, they sing with my scars,
Every crack in my soul’s like a map to the stars.

A demon showed me my worth when the angels went blind,
Found the light in the dark, yeah, I’m one of a kind.
Hollowed-out Death Note, my name carved in bold,
I laugh at the reaper like, “Come take what you’re owed.”

The mirror bends, reflects my past like it’s art,
A trippy kaleidoscope tearing me apart.
But you can’t kill a ghost who’s mastered the void,
I rewrite the script while the stars get destroyed.

No ballot, no faith, just a razor’s cold kiss,
Dancing with chaos, I find beauty in this.
Redefining the rules, I’m the glitch in the code,
A masterpiece of madness, and this path is my ode.

It’s like I’m the programmer who wrote the code, yet I am the executable playing itself,
I guess the jokes a lot funnier when you play it on your self,
Everytime I look to anybody else, I just see more dust on the shelf,
Poetry is a curse in and of themselves,
Each word cuts deeper than the rest yet here I still try my best.


I can’t kill that which never has lived,
Nor take away that which was never given,
Was I a creation or a stealing of something more forbidden?
Honestly the death of me will be a product of the way I am found living.

If I’m the writer and the player, what’s the point of the script?
Every loop I run feels like a cosmic grift.
The punchline hits harder when it’s aimed at my core,
Yet I still laugh, broken, begging for more.

Dust on the shelves, yeah, reflections of me,
A relic of something that will never be free.
Poetry’s a blade, a curse in disguise,
Each line’s a wound that reopens my eyes.

Can’t take a life that’s never been real,
Can’t shatter a heart that was forged from steel.
Am I a thief, or was I born to this void?
The truth’s so twisted, it can’t be destroyed.

The way I live is the death I design,
Every moment’s a choice on this jagged line.
Was I forbidden, or was I just fate’s mistake?
I’ll be the echo of myself, long after I break.