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The woes of being a mortal
Who are you?
Who am I?
Waiting and watching as the days go by.
You’ve seen me stumble; you’ve seen me fall,
You’ve plotted my death, arranged my funeral ball.
You are spectators,
A powerless breed of watchers.
I, on the other hand, am a performer
My life, constantly scrutinised,
Upon which you amuse.
I may seem unworthy or without dignity,
A shame to the world, not a priority,
But why, may I ask;
Do you still watch?
With utmost intrigue,
Watch and wait and plot my downfall.
And yet, I make every brave stand I can,
And you still deliver harsh blows every time,
My life is not what you’d call sublime.
For it is full of cruel twists and turns.
I’ve been hurt on various encounters,
I’m covered in colourful yet sordid bruises and burns.
My fears overwhelm me; terrify me,
In which you take great pleasure.
Your sword sharp tongue burns away the embers of passion in my heart.
Cruelty your sinister leisure, pushing me further and further back from the game.
My happiness perplexes and angers you,
You make certain that it is short lived.
My sadness which swamps out for even longer,
Linger forever, etches ugly scars in the depth of my soul.
You take it in turns to taunt and tease me,
Stabbing until my previous wounds break away to bleed.
To every living god, I’ve begged for solace,
Yet my wishes aren’t granted, I’m met with cold silence.
Nobody wants to know.
No one seems to care, but take great delight-
In delivering fatal blow after blow.
Yet my words never go unwritten,
They are of true cruelty yet a strange, cold beauty,
That takes their form in delicate curves of my writing,
Fate is the true name of this cruel notion.
But these are the woes of being a mortal,
Something so foreign yet vivid,
That your ignorance could never comprehend.
A language of emotions, where joy, love and youth are eternal,
And these are the woes of being a mortal.
But your immortal woes are far severe than mine,
Your soul, a cold, unwelcoming shroud of steel,
Your eyes, two perfectly formed ellipses reflect your stone cold heart,
Your jaw, clenched tight in pure, raw anger.
Your ethereal beauty repulses those who see your true nature,
Your pulse has not a single rhythm to beat out.
And your heart, a rough jagged stone of midnight black,
My life full of true modesty is what you lack.
You may be my arch nemesis,
You could bring upon a storm of turmoil in my soul,
But you are met with your own cold silence,
The icy, spine chilling grip spreads from the depths of your soul.
The heart so deprive of true love spreads vain notions to your mind,
When in fact-