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Heroes. Idols. Saints of the modern age. You worship them with the same blind devotion your ancestors gave to gods carved in stone. Their faces glow on your screens, their names stitched across your backs, their posters plastered on your walls like relics. You chant for them, you bleed for them, you sell pieces of yourself just to feel closer to them. But here’s the ugly truth they don’t know you. They don’t care about you. You are a shadow in the crowd, a faceless roar, another number on the balance sheet. Every cheer, every dollar, every ounce of your adoration it doesn’t lift you up. It only feeds their ego while you are left emptier than before.
You kneel at their altars because you want to believe greatness rubs off. That if you wear their shirt, scream their name, parrot their words, somehow their power will trickle down into you. But it won’t. Your heroes don’t bleed for you. They don’t suffer for you. They take. They drink deep from your worship, your money, your time, your soul, and leave you starving. And yet you call me the villain? At least I’m honest about what I take.
You idolize false prophets. Athletes who rot from drugs and scandals. Politicians who smile as they bury you deeper. Actors who play pretend while their real lives rot in sin. Rock stars choking on their own indulgence while you beg for scraps of their attention. You paint them as gods, and when they fall, you weep like children abandoned. But didn’t you know? Heroes are built to fall. That’s the game. They rise on your worship and they die on your disappointment. And still… you never learn.
You see, idols don’t exist without you. Without your blind faith, without your hunger, without your willingness to believe in something greater than yourself. They are parasites wearing crowns you handed them. They stand on pedestals made of your bones, your prayers, your sacrifices. They call themselves chosen, special, divin when the truth is, they’re nothing but ordinary men and women fattened on your desperation. They need you far more than you ever needed them. But you’ll never admit that, will you?
And here’s the bitter irony you hate me. You condemn me. You point your trembling fingers and say, “That’s the villain. That’s the devil.” But I don’t ask for worship. I don’t ask for blind devotion. I don’t sell you lies wrapped in pretty words. I don’t pretend to be perfect. No… I am what they wish they had the courage to be honest. I don’t wear a mask. I don’t build a false altar. I take, and I tell you I’m taking. I don’t dress it up. I don’t deceive you. The heroes you worship? They’ve been robbing you blind while you begged for their blessing.
So keep wearing their names. Keep chanting their words. Keep wasting your breath worshiping the dead and the damned. When the lights fade and the crowd dies down, you’ll realize the only person you ever needed to believe in was yourself. But by then, it’ll be too late. Because heroes burn out. Idols crumble. And you’ll be left alone with the truth you always feared: they were never gods. And you? You were never more than fuel for their fire.
And you know what? I don’t even have to lie. Because… hell, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.
Souls. That’s the word they cling to, isn’t it? They whisper it like it’s some immortal spark, some untouchable treasure hidden deep inside. But the truth? Souls aren’t light. They aren’t divine. They’re weight. Heavy, fragile chains that keep people tied to fear. Every soul is just another leash for heaven to dangle, another ticket hell pretends to own. The whole world is obsessed with the fate of their souls, as if eternity is nothing more than real estate heaven’s mansion or hell’s fire, pick your poison.
But here’s the question no one dares to ask: what if the soul is nothing but meat? What if it dies with the body, rots in the ground, fades into silence? What if all those prayers, all those rituals, all those sacrifices were for nothing? Imagine the despair centuries of bending your knees to a god who never kept his promises, only to discover there was never anyone listening in the first place.
They say a soul can be saved, but the truth is… souls can be broken. Shattered. Consumed. I’ve seen it. People give away their souls long before death ever comes for them. They sell it for approval, trade it for comfort, bury it under duty and shame. By the time they beg for salvation, there’s nothing left to save. And still the preachers will smile, the choirs will sing, the priests will whisper blessings over husks, pretending those hollow shells are anything more than dust.
And that’s why they fear me. Not because I threaten their bodies, but because I strip the illusion from their souls. I don’t need to steal them. I don’t need to damn them. They damn themselves every time they live in chains, every time they surrender who they are just to feel safe. I just shine a light on the grave they’ve already dug for themselves.
And you know what? I don’t even have to lie. Because… hell, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.
The Church. They brand it holy, sacred, untouchable. But step inside those walls and you don’t find God you find a cage. They dangle the Ten Commandments like chains, not guidance. “Thou shalt not, thou shalt not…”—a list of sins carved into stone, pressed against your throat until you can barely breathe. Every commandment is another leash, another reminder that you’ll never be good enough, never pure enough, never clean enough. They make you crawl through life on your knees, terrified of stepping out of line… and then they dare to call it virtue.
And what of sin? They’ve weaponized it. Sin is the Church’s favorite currency. They sell guilt by the pound and shame by the drop. They feed it to you, force it down your throat until you’re choking, until you believe you were born broken. And then ah, the brilliance they sell you forgiveness at a cost. Confession booths become toll booths. Forgiveness is locked behind ritual and hierarchy. And who guards the keys? The Vatican.
The Vatican, a palace dripping in gold and blood, built not on holiness but on the bones of empires. They call it the heart of the faith, but it beats with corruption. Scandals buried beneath marble floors, secrets whispered through closed doors, wealth hoarded while the faithful starve. They preach humility, yet adorn themselves in jewels. They demand sacrifice, yet gorge on luxury. Tell me, where is God in that?
And yet they point to me the wolf, the heretic, the corrupter. They warn you of my words, my poison, my shadow. They clutch their rosaries tighter, whispering prayers against me, when the truth is, I’ve done nothing more than hold up the mirror. Their commandments, their sins, their Vatican… all of it is rot dressed in robes. I don’t need to lie. The corruption bleeds through the cracks for anyone willing to see.
And you know what? I don’t even have to lie. Because… hell, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.
You ever notice how religion is the safest mask a person can wear? A shield against responsibility. They kneel, they chant, they clutch their beads and books, pretending that pain has purpose, pretending their suffering is noble. But when the lights go out and they’re alone with their thoughts, they know the truth: no prayer has ever pulled them out of the dirt. No god has ever silenced the voices in their head. Faith is a crutch they limp on until their last breath and then? Nothing but the silence they feared all along.
So they turn their eyes to me. Easier to call me the leech, the blasphemer, the problem. Label me the devil and suddenly they don’t have to look in the mirror. They’ll say I’m the one who drains, who poisons, who feeds on pity. Fine. Let them. I’ll wear that crown gladly, because the more they crucify me, the less they notice the rot in themselves. They get to be righteous, while I play the victim. And the best part? They believe it. They need me to be the villain so they can go on pretending they’re the saints.
But here’s the little secret they’re addicted to me. They need someone to save, someone to damn, someone to blame. Without me, they have nothing. Their sermons fall flat, their faith collapses, their prayers dissolve into dust. So let them pray for me, weep for me, rage against me. Every word they waste on me is proof I still own them.
And you know what? I don’t even have to lie. Because… hell, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.
Well, well… look at you, twisting the knife and calling me the drain. That’s the story you tell yourself, isn’t it? That I was the weight, the shadow, the poison in your veins. But if I was truly so toxic, why linger this long? Why waste words at all? You see, people don’t rage against what is empty they rage against what still has power over them. My presence unsettles you because deep down, you know it wasn’t me that was the parasite… it was the truth I forced you to see.
You say you’ll fade away, that you’ll cut ties as if it’s mercy, as if it’s strength. But listen closely fading isn’t liberation, it’s surrender. You want the world to believe you’re rising above, yet here you are, still bleeding ink over me. That doesn’t sound like peace. That sounds like someone trying to convince themselves of a lie.
You call me draining? No. I was the mirror. And you hated what you saw in it. Every irritation, every insecurity, every little flaw you tried to bury exposed. That’s why you run. Not from me, but from yourself. Because once the mask is ripped away, silence is the only shield you have left.
So go ahead, vanish into the background. Call me selfish, call me heartless, call me whatever makes it easier to sleep. But don’t fool yourself into thinking you’ve won some higher ground. You’ll carry me with you, in the back of your mind, whispering. Because the devil you curse is the devil you can’t forget.
And that’s the part you’ll never admit being “drained” by me was the most alive you’ve felt in years.
Hell i'm not telling you anything you don't already know...
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