You're a filthy little *******,
you were always undesired!
You look like ****,
and also smell like it.

You're a worthless little *****
who I wish I could kick.
Of course you dress like a ******
and I could say bye with ease.

You inspire the worst in me,
Please! Just leave me be.

Of course its easy enough
to say the worst,
to a realistic reflection
in the mimicking mirror.

Men have been great,
from birth till death,
from Jesus to Napoleon,
Men have been great.

But what is it that makes men 'Great'?
Is it compassion and heart?
Passion and intensity?
Ferocity and battles?
humility and wisdom?
It depends on who you ask.

Fame perhaps, makes these men great,
thats something they all have in common.
A positive reputation in the eyes of someone,
be it a follower, a supporter, a believer.

What is 'greatness'?
such a good question.
What makes men 'great'?
Another good question.
The time has come
to ponder on this final question,

"Can I too be great?"

His eyes spat fire far and wide,
his temper flared like hells rage.
There were few who assuaged him,
only the enemies who lay dead.

He searched the globe in fierce pursuit,
wanting them all dead and rotting.
He would bury them wherever he be,
On land or deep raging seas.

If ever they should tell my story,
what would they say?
How would they say it?
He lived the common life?
Plain as one could live?

Aye, this seems fair, but I pray
this is not that all my life should be.
I hope it grows to something extravagant,
well and truly before I die.

Being great at something,
it doesn't make it any easier.
In time perhaps you might
accept it, and acclimatise,
being a good soldier,
it doesn't necessarily make it easier
to shoot your opponents down.

Being great at something,
it doesn't make you immune to pressures.
Nor the mock and ridicule.
There is a lot to consider,
when being great at something.

Who sits amongst the tree tops,
peering down, inquisitively poking his nose?
Ah, yes! The little Nature boy.
The forgotten child whom nature has reclaimed.

Why it was years ago now, but yes, still
I remember. Eerie foggy mornings,
the quiet groan of the forests, and the distant
rustle of the foliage, above and around them.

Then, as if by some cruel plot,
a ravenous pack of animals wild,
bore down upon them,
one, two, three to a person,
weapons fired, weapons dropped,
useless, now they lay lifeless.

Yet, by some strange miracle
the boy survived. He grew and grew
eating of the plants and fruits
which the forest gave.
And, until this day he is a mystery
but a mystery people long to see.