I am no poet; I hope that is completely clear to the critics and masses This faulty abstraction is a cover: a manifestation of the iniquitous wit Without a doubt, it remains evidence of my fraudulent venture as being Vindication of a sad soul relieves it no less from a heavy heart Or a wrenching ache, for mine is none different than the beating humanity Ever toiling its essence away into a pool of raw, fevered ambition I am no bird; my wings were lost in the overwhelming surge of humanity A weakness that burdened us without regard for preservation of being Times over the sun set and the reddened sky halted my ambition No religion could sway me, sway us to live without reason or guilt or wit Alone we are never birds, but a flock enticed is in truth the honest masses Time tells and tolls the artist: he is the overtone of the people; he is the heart I am no gentleman; as I walk to my dresser I am filled with foreign ambition Today I will wear a coat, a tie with stripes, and a pin in the shape of a heart Without a second thought, I read through the Times and pity the masses As I drive to my job, as I walk to my chore, and as I toil at my humanity The funniest thought gusts through my head; I continue doing and I keep being By the end of the day the day has ended and the day has drained my wit I am no hero; when I breathe the air that you have poisoned, it pierces my heart Before this crisis of indemnity evolves, hide your woes beneath a canvas of wit Laugh about profound and newfound inhibitions, but do not question my humanity Striding through our homes is a sloth silence: creeping faintheartedness among the masses Fate has lifted our love to a new plane, above curiosity and ambition Life is now a greatly dreaded thing; it is a caustic ache to the ever- present being I am no killer; the wrongly deserved of death are by my hand never robbed of wit The days may be long but always longer are the nights so fervent with ambition Gaunt spirits haunt our dreams, and they will not be stifled or denied their being So where are these killers, whose fears are plenty, which bleed from an obsidian heart Released into words they stalk and devour us in numbers, a plague upon humanity In accord with the beast and the devil we are, a single voice of the masses I am no one; I must now annex wings through a unique flawlessness of being Utter invalidation before us: the ruin of the serpentine body of the relentless masses Scattered reminders whispered revealing fallacies regarding the pristine heart Soiling the surface of a newly distinguished apparition, however devoid of humanity No faces and no minds inflict this memory upon us: it is purely of impartial wit Livid are the oceans, boiling with acrimony, unsettled at our material ambition I am no beggar; I've no intention of hailing forth the windblown masses I am no saint; never have I assumed certainty as a savior of humanity For I am no body any longer, only a shadow of a future being