You’re not set to have an easy road, you aren’t graced with luck and leisure, you will toil and labor for the things that you need

You will not get help, you aren’t deemed by the mass to be given the grace of the lord, this is the fate of this avenue

You won’t deserve it, but the cosmos has alligned against your favor, you will tend fields of rotted corn and unfertile abyss

You weren’t a lucky one, the world held a gun to you the minute you gave a pulse, unwanted in this darkness it became your craddle

You will ask for help, but will not receive it, for you are the shadow among the other shadows

This is a reality hard to mend, for the ones born to leisure never look under the stones they sit on