Many a time in life he thinks,
of how well to society he links.
Sometimes a COWARD,
sometimes a SHRIMP,
always a loser,
never does he win.

Unable to relate, he wanders around
places unknown; maybe homeward bound,
but knoweth he not, to where belongs,
that is a place nowhere to be found.

Poetry flows through me no more,
what spell have you cast.
Leave me be - beauty,
bewitch me not, my past.

Let go of me - serene,
for you already have.
Leaving behind a scar
until my grave.

Never did you ever care,
how bare, when I was, where.
Neither did I ever blame
you with a blank stare.

I loved you, beauty,
with all my heart.
expressions condensed,
a mere stare - Art.

I know it is not you,
I'm fighting through.
Just my impression
though a bit skewed.

Unable to express, unable to speak,
a mannerless Frankenstein.
Unlikable, lonely, thus I am,
in a memory clandestine.

Rendered useless by you,
this you forced me to do;
Little is my agony - belle,
today as I strangle you.

In all the years I have lived,
as a man, a boy, a kid.
Pondered have I, with every breath,
how would it be that I face death.

Some promised me an afterlife,
Of pleasures I seldom craved.
Some said I would burn in hell,
afraid were they, I wish them well.

Some said I needed a soul,
some said I had one.
Albeit naught in a vast whole,
some said I was the soul.

Redemption is the way some said,
to rest in peace, beneath the grave.
People to possess, places to haunt,
else they said I would ever hunt.

A few said, I would meet with GOD,
albeit only if I agreed to bow.
With empty heads and holy writs,
spreading fear is all they did.

Seldom did they know death,
Soldom do I;
Seoldom does anyone,
for all are yet to die.

Reality, truth, realization, of what?
Can anyone point out the fun of it all.
Inspiring it seems
from a distance though,
doesn't everything
we do not know?

Years, does it take to
reach that threshold.
Once there, what be it,
that we hold?
TRUTH, they say is what
one shall behold.
Unknown realities, or just
facts gone cold?

Albeit a beauty
it shall be,
expectations and beyond,
one would see,
but where again, would
he want to be?
Within true tales
or fantasy.

Before this, thus, the legend says :

"Unfathomable are its ways,
Its beauty and its tales,
to uncover thus, takes a sage,
not what a meer thinker might gauge."

Hence the truth glares at one's face,
a grin so frightful, hard to face,
then the legend one reads again,
for fright and delight,
are naught for the sage.