Behind the Curtain
He calls himself a poet
An artist beyond compare
He calls himself a king
But only has hateful words to share
He hides his pain completely
Behind a computer and a facade
And when he's slinging insults
He fancies himself a God
He feels so rotten inside
Because his heart is made of mold
He feeds on peoples anger
To buy back the soul he sold
He's filled with insecurities
Riddled with self doubt
These things he keeps well hidden
So no one knows what he's about
He won't admit to anyone
Not even to his self
That he's quite sick inside
And in need of urgent help
Instead he hides behind a screen
Hurling mud and calling names
Not knowing or caring those he hurts
May never be the same
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