The old forms have failed. The promises weren't real. Our connections never clicked. ’m still here screaming at a wall. What’s left to say? My heroes said it better in past days. So muse, grant me strength ‘cause Moloch knows my disdain. My identity relies on the belief that art can reach something that cannot be seen and affect the changes for which we've been waiting. The old has been made new and since then rejected but that doesn't dilute the purity of the motives. Let it be melancholy. How can we be happy as we’re victimized? Let it be filled with longing. It’s staggering the amount we've been denied. Let it be angry and revolutionary because we’re giving pennies or all that we sacrifice; it’s insulting. We have been crushed in a vacuum of corporate pop art designed for profits. I can’t keep quiet as beauty is ravaged and commodified as mere entertainment while Moloch robs us of our best years. Art isn't just an outlet. It’s an expression of emotional and physical loss while Moloch robs us of our best years.
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