it's ironic, he muses to himself as he taps the tip of his ballpoint pen onto the surface of his table, gaze fixated onto the tens of windows open on his laptop. it's ironic that as an idol it becomes his obligation as a role model to become a positive influence on the younger generation, yet being an idol is nothing more than ruining your own life for the comfort of others. his music may just be the single thread that's holding someone down back into reality but to him, it's a simple reminder that his life is no longer his. 

 

is this what they wish? do people want their children to mask their sadness with phony smiles and insincere greetings, do people only live to be convenient company? is despair not real? is anger meant to be kept in until all the words that bubble underneath the teeth pressing down against your tongue burst out of your ing chest?

 

his eyes hover over the headlines. they're all the same, and all the comments that follow are of nothing but of disgust.

 

the devil may not be real, but he isn't afraid of being dragged down to hell when he's already sold every last crumb of his soul to the merciless animals we call humankind.