Am I supposed to be something?
What's my purpose?
Should I write?
Or should I torture?

Should I rhyme?
Or let it be?
Can I dance?
Or do I not have the permission to be?

Let jealousy ruin me?
Should I call life a phase?
Am I even real?
Supposed it isn't reality?

Fooled by the pain we feel,
Fooled by the toxicity,
Fooled by the monsters,
In our mind.

That little voice,
It just says "give the hell up, what are trying to achieve?"
Greatness, but it doesn't want that,
So it pushes you down, into it's bunny hat.

Humor? What is even a laugh?
They say you used to smile,
Can I go back to that time?
I just wish time travel was possible.

Why is everything a mystery?
Where is the key?
The treasure box in my hands,
Without me even having the map.

How could this be?
I guess it's just our mystery.