Every time I waste it upon,
Feeling of numbness spreads,
Until it touches the face of dawn,
Most of the tides fade.
It is not a riddle,
Where I find it amusing,
Later then it brittles,
And find it hurting.
Even the game,
Started to turn it heads,
Around this plain fame,
Loss in deeds.
Greed and jealousy,
Anger and madness,
What’s left is there to see,
Than us being monsters.
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