I long for the day when your name no longer brings me pain

My summations are wholly gnomic.
Some call these articulations "weakness,"
Others, being driven, lettered, undress
Them imperceptibly. I'm Homeric
Without grandeur of high-flown rhetoric.
Epics I pen dissolve the world's heart
And suffer abandonment in K-Mart,
Pulp-paged and forgettable. Ironic?

Yes, but such sentiment is commonplace.

When I was young, my mother told
that "Gods are born in iron molds"
Peers caught hold and then controlled,
they told me I was only stone—
cold.
But I see the now—the lies they hold.
The skies turned yellow for all to behold
and I was born
from liquid gold.
Living without a form to hold.