Pseudo-wits

Nineteen.
None seen.
I have written enough to make it up.
I have made up enough to write nonsense.
But could it be revolutionary?

Do I still want to be the one, carried by that what I hate.
Dislike, it's stronger than hate.
I ramble I crumble I am nowhere to be seen.
All I can participate in.
Has been written before.

Has been pondered about before.

I have no input for change, I have nothing to change in me.

My ideology of perfection was a perception of lies. Made by me.
All my ideas are reruns. I'm the television of real life.
I need a younger self, more knowledge and less light.