I will always be a monster.

Life sentences you harshly of an existence without clarity,
Without rarity, and with an all-encompassing scrutiny.

What becomes of a man who was blessed by the light,
Only to learn that his shadow grew far bigger?

What becomes of a beast that was tamed, a bird of hermes,
What of the heart that was shattered on its day?

Defeated, unbecoming and undeserving of love,
That is what a monster eventually becomes,

If I were to shout about the calamities,
Empires would line up to deny the atrocities,
Proving once and for all that it all fell under liabilities,

For when a monster begets a conscious,
It tears his soul apart,
Yet only those who revel in darkness,
Can truly cast it aside,

And when I shout from the mountain tops:
Do you not see what I've done?
Do you not see that it is I who suffers?

The light whispers: what of me and my tale?
Why is it that I see you moving like a snail?

To which the darkness responds: I cannot change after all,
If after moving mountains and worlds you believe so,
If after all that I've endured and sacrificed,
If after all this time, it was you I hurt the most,

Then it is true. I will always be a monster.