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Lost focus, edging into the fields of discontent,
Seeing treachery in its own web of delusion,
Though there is no betrayal there of,
Only the phobia of losing what one does not have,
Reality is bent by insanity,
Twisted into a crippled creature,
Hope withers with apathy's growth,
Sadistic tissue of suffering's own body,
A deep suffering,
Bordering on depression,
But not so pathetic,
No, there is more to it than that,
It is the bittersweet taste of the masochist's own disappointment,
But at what end?
What has it truly cost him?
A friend's hand?
Or a tyrant's crown?
Thus, is the dilemma,
A plethora of distress,
The sucklings of hate's inner design,
A line that curves the path of malevolence with that of innocence,
Driving the one who only wished for good fortune into a monster,
Cursed by second guesses and cautious steps of utter paranoia,
It is not the life he wishes to lead,
He would much rather take death's black embrace,
A curse or a blessing?
One can never be certain,
But be certain of this my friend,
The only harm he can do is honesty and passion,
Whether the effects of that be good or ill,
It is at least real,
No deceptions,
No crude intent,
His own stress keeps him awake,
Makes him stir with unforgiving unease,
It is not what he enjoys,
But would he rather cause offense?
No, he would much rather hide himself from fearful eyes,
And keep his words and heart-felt intentions at rest,
Lest he wishes to create a burden of discomfort,
To those of whom he holds great respect for,
And of that, he would rather die.