And why am I losing myself,
against these egoistical pens;
who never stop writing,
and never stop their amends;
why do I keep thinking,
that I am so gifted;
while behind the screen,
my motivation has slowly sifted;
why am I dreaming,
that everything will be fine;
when I know that in the end,
nothing will ever shine;
and why does everything hurt,
under the pages and stories;
why has everything gone to dirt,
while we celebrate our glories?