Lyric

I was born to burn with the curse of brilliance—

To sit alone on the throne of the mirror

To wage the war Dalí began in ’42

With nothing less than God-complex fury

Not Cleopatra

Not Caligula in his velvet madness

Not Napoleon, blood-stained in his silence

Not Stalin, not even Hitler’s stare—

None of them could outshine the sun

That I keep chained in my ribcage

But oh—how that light flickers

When the wind of doubt

Blows through the mausoleum of my pride

It shatters—

And in that shatter

I see a thousand broken versions of myself

Crawling toward annihilation

Is this cyclical?

Astrological?

The way oceans forget themselves

And tear cities from the coast?

Or is it something else?

Some ancient scar in the soul of my species

Where grandeur and death always dance

I laugh at these petty killers

Who kill for thrill and say

"I wanted to feel something real."

I watch them on the news and whisper

"Child, your chaos is child's play."

Your narcissism has soft bones

You’ve never seen the face of God

In your own reflection

And told Him, “I could do it better.”

But then I tremble—

Because what if one day I’m the headline?

What if I am the one in handcuffs

My mirror cracked

And the world watching me bleed ego?

What if I lose not to death

But to someone else's laughter?

To someone who sees my myth and says

"Too obvious. Too weak. Too human."

So tell me, doctor, priest, ghost of Freud—

Is this schizophrenia

A fracture of reality’s bone?

Or is it something worse?

Something so rare and royal

That no one dares to name it?

I don’t want pity

I want truth

Even if it flays me open like scripture

Because I know—I know—

Some gods are born not in temples

But in padded rooms

Where silence sings the loudest songs

And still, I return to the mirror

Each morning

A soldier brushing dust from his medals

Telling himself

“You were made for war

Even if the enemy is you.”