[no title]
i try not to live forever because all that shit is like a delicate house of cards; building fame leaving legacy and for what is this not all we have? what is the point? what is left when you fall asleep? what is left when you're alone? when your creativity goes like the hoes in your bars... gone? all those lyrics about bitches and money burnt and old? spent and cold? a cult of cold eyes slowly dying off the name on your head stone rubbed through how are people supposed to remember you? id rather go out loudly in a forest where the echo won't carry me far and won't last longer than i do.
[unpublished]
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