(no subject)

[pwndrew]

My senses, though eroded, have been known,
With help from transcendence and obsession,
To craft a lyric and a matching tone
That need both approval and expression,
Despite their maker's irksome derision
And constant self-indulgence; leave him be,
To waver first then make a decision
And seek respect unconditonally.
The faith that's held within the artist's head
In his own worth may be sophomoric--
Aloofness should not be a cause of dread;
Madmen tend to be the most euphoric.
You'll know for sure, when you've finally seen us,
Conceit is just liberated genius