Harbouring a personal vendetta.
These almost vicarious voices,
The enemy since age 10.
Told you are immortal without them,
But they’ve been patient,
Watching your character arc towards
Premature, exact demise.
They will plant you in the garden,
Amongst the pompous roses,
Beneath the blanket of nutrients,
Outshined by the arrogant worker bee.
They’ll articulate their shame,
When you, once again, fail to bloom,
And laugh as your soul,
Lowers into a soiled trench.
You’ve enlisted to fight this,
Bodyless, nameless, and hateful enemy.
Brandishing your weapon,
Concieved from mindful thinking,
But all it did was sharpen the adversaries’ edges.
Your final defense,
An instrument of destruction.
While the guitar decays, you pluck a broken tune,
And screech a discarded chorus.
Fractured melodies they call prayer.
Screaming at the sky,
With an unraveling mind.
All you got was “Life’s Not Fair”.