I am a man amongst but men.
dearth of viles that tread the hubris of but my foil.
trials and tribulations of mine, are but ubiquitous to My realm.
within I the Virtues effervescent, ever present, etched beyond this mortal coil.
                   Eyes see shuffles of fools shuffling, huddling, meddling, hitering and withering!
quivering in insipid hoards, fatigue lay waste to their bereft souls!
I gaze upon above, there is -- cannot be -- no hope
                                    ; but below they implore -- to no doubt escape my scorn?
                     -- YES! -- for I AM Ozymandias! king of kings!
                                                                                                         look upon my works ye and despair! Nothing beside remains.
          for besides was, yet can nevermore be great -- laid for waste by the sands, escapes of which not men, but a haze!  
                                                                                            ...yet i shall stand ***** -- above -- above all the rest?
declared have i this mortal coil shall not wither -- n'er shuffle, nor huddle -- like men thither?
for my virtues are... ineffaced through numerous toils?
or is my perseverance akin to, YE, oh foil?
surely Y'er vile and decrepit fate, cannot subject upon me its gaze?
                                                                                                    perchance? oh how that would -- not -- be deranged!
for I AM Ozymandias...


                                             ...yet I am -- but -- a man amongst men -- who escaped Ozymandias, within the sand

You see,
I seem to have caught
the deathly hug of hubris
I know everything
But what does it all mean?
The pleasures of life go right above my head
And time drips from my fingertips
Plip, plop, plip
I am a blip
And this hug,
Why does it make everything so sad?

the genius
of his spirit isn't
allowed to be
confident

the muses around
his works
laugh at his
shy hubris

his connections
to the creative are
buried under a
desert

his voice
is full
of charisma
and doubt

there's something
in the way
of love

his heart is
alone in hell

in his father's
home
searching for the
way

his life is a
lightbulb
as bright as
it is empty

just like his
poetry

You’re always right
Until you forget that you’re alive
You’re always righteous
Until you forget what is right

Your soul is a paper kite
And the wind that blows sets it alight
But your body is flightless
You recall when you fall from a great height

You’re screaming into
An endless void
Hearing an echo
Of your own voice
Screaming back at you
Filling your own void

𝔐𝔞𝔨𝔦𝔫 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔶𝔬𝔲
ℑ𝔫 𝔞 𝔟𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔬𝔪 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔩𝔩, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢
𝔐𝔦𝔯𝔯𝔬𝔯 𝔠𝔞𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔦𝔱 𝔞𝔩𝔩

Loving , praising and embracing oneself isn't hubris and selfish ,
rather , the best technique for keeping all those at bay who expect from others to stay under their feet.

Invader of war
At my doorstep
Knocking on thoughts
Now it's open
Please come in
Pillage, destroy
Whatever granny can provide.