When the clock turns twelve,
Why is he better? he asks himself.
Relentlessly he scouts
In his thoughts throughout,
But comes back with just another sorrow,
The seeds of which he himself sow.

Why can't I be better? Why do I disappoint?
Why can he do it? And why can't I be poised?
Why do I, get the responsibilities and he the symphonies?

To all, the answer is none
for the spiral of thought has begun
In the absolute loneliness of the dark,
With a fear so stark
That he wishes to die,
So much that even his soul cries.
The tears of guilt roll down, filled with dismay,
Of how he did yet again disappoint and betray.

Even the mightiest of hearts,
Even the brains incredibly smart,
Fall short to comparisons, the thief of joy,
The absolute ploy,
the conspiring killjoy.