[Objective]

The Realist.

I'm the kinda guy that gets nervous on purpose,
a masked circus of worthless to drown all of my burdens.
I've lowered the expectations to be calm under the surface,
when I succeed for my peeps it's like surprisingly good service.
I get cred for my work and I feel great cuz I was trying my hardest,
but as a jerk revising my tactics I realize I'm proud as a con-artist.
So now I'll be honest; the compound of a evil genius in motion
is the sound of psych-wards applauding the king of the ocean.
The Leviathan's me, and you bet my powers are potent,
I swore to fulfill designs within rhymes to instill all of its content.
I'm not a slave for entertainment, I'm entertainments personal slave,
So deep into writing I'm concerned 'bout the text on my grave.
I'm complex and insane, my aim in context; vexed to be trained,
too perplex to be tamed, I named this contest ''Who's the next to be slain?''
I'm in debt to behave as OCD turned into passion,
burned bridges with flows, now I'm violent for action.
An honest distraction, contractions got prone;
the hyphens learn connections like text-into-tone.
After years of words turned into nothing I kinda feel sore and abused,
when I ask my friends what they think ... It's just boredom excused.