What a tourist, what a fraud.
False sincerity, false rebirth.
Ugliness in its truest form.
Your mind is a desert,
Vast and filled with dirt.

You want to be articulate but your tongue is tied to you cheek
You want to be a poet but you’re just coughing up smoke

The mud in your throat.
The skin in your spirit.
The dirt in your heart.
I see it all.
I've know it all
Your lie reflects my lie. And suddenly,
I feel nothing, I find no relief

Guilt crawls down my wall, into my bed.
My harshness calls to me in the night.
My disgust stands in my doorway.
What a tourist. What a fraud.