It seems my life is not my own, fate has cast my lot to be one of suffering.
I toil away, day by day, seeking something better, but fate seems set on holding me here.
I strive and reach for better but fate holds it beyond my reach.
She works me day and night, till my back is bent and my sight is dim, yet is never appeased by my labor.
I cannot break free of these chains nor the life I seem trapped in.
Some herald fate as something great to behold; something we cannot escape.
Let us call her by her true name: Cruel Mistress
For she beats her scourge into our back to drive us on as though she doesn't pull the strings she's attached to our limbs.
Do not sling your accusations at me, for we are one in the same,
We are both slaves to our master, carrying out their bidding.
If you wish to cast blame, throw your stone at the one who pulls the strings attached to my limbs with which you claim I pull on yours.
Fate, fate, Cruel Mistress, see you not the ire in your words?
You call me your equal as you tower above.
You look down upon my head and drive me along as a marionette while you lash the open wounds upon my back.
Do you honestly claim to know my pain?
To know your pain is not what I claim.
You say you are chained, trapped by me, your cruel mistress, yet I tell you now,
'Tis not I who pulls your strings while striking your back with a scourge.
While you are lashed, so am I.
You are pulled about by strings while I am burdened with blame for things I have not done.
No, no. What you accuse me of was not done by me, but by the one we are both slaves to.
Fate, pray tell, do you speak true?
Are we both slaves to one master?
Hold out no more, say their name that I may take my sword and free us both.
Foolish mortal,
If I told you to plant your sword in the ground and fall upon it, would you?
Allow me to make it even simpler for you.
Harken your eyes to that cliff over yonder. Run to it and cast yourself to the air beside it.
Only then shall we both be free.
Fate, Cruel Mistress, do you not see what you ask?
I wish to set us both free, yet you would write my death.
Foolish mortal, can't you see?
When you pull one arm down, your other must rise. Only by raising one arm does the other find reprieve.
Look behind you and you will see, it is not I but your own desire that plagues you with the scourge.
The strings tied 'round your limbs were tied there by yourself.
If not for your desire and pride, your back would have no scares.
The master I serve is you and my job is to take the blame for your pain,
Foolish mortal, can't you see?
I am your creation for there is no fate but what you make.
YOU ARE READING
Writing Poetry is for Losers
PoesíaThis is a book of poems, what else do you need to know? Well, I guess it's not entirely poems- but the focus is poetry. The best description would be an open diary/though book, but in poems. Does that make this a blog? I honestly have no idea why I'...
