Mother and child, room of wails
Pales in comparison to what the pen has prepared
A laird to hardships unaware, she protects her hope in her ***** to no avail
For what hails heroes from the dust least they have yet to be erred


Their tormentors shudder from oppressed cut brilliance hidden in pages, addicts to riches bought with blood
Yea, a spud to peace, their wages of greed persist into a protagonist’s drudgery
The journey they face disregards limits, obstacles held together by the will of the author must they succumb
Shunned by amity, the mastermind leaves their conclusion smudgily in dirt


We Readers helplessly watch our heroes with words of consolation clumped in our throat
Devoted to a good story, we gleefully sell time to the composer so our champions can climb the ropes
Common tropes of old, we discuss in groups or alone characters we breathe to life with admiration in which we bloat
Rote in its finest, we continue this slow dancing of pages to the tempo of screams of peril or the feast of shortlived jokes
For the author knows to keep everyone afloat by throwing a good tale on a boat

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨.
𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨?
𝘉𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘷𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘴?
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘺𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦?
𝘖𝘳 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴, 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘴?
𝘚𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵?

You should find you and nobody else but you.
Nobody can understand what you've been through and why you did what you did.
Because at the end of the day, you only have yourself.
You can only understand, you.