Everyone seems content, just to point at me,
And laugh until they cry, themselves, for all the world to see.
I'm sorry if I'm not what I was, I'm sorry what I am,
But I'm getting tired of this nonsense, because I start to give a damn.
Everyone knows when a soft note is struck, the wire tightly bound,
Sharp and piercing is the result, a hellishly saddening sound.
Yet some pervert their minds, playing upon other's harps,
Making them feel giddy one moment, the next wanting to tear out their
hearts.
While a crying gem is found at last, a remnant of what I was like,
I don't care anymore, I'm not that person, so put my head on a pike.
I don't care what others think, but when they comment on what I was,
A sharp note is struck just then, and I'm said, just because...

Of what I am. Of what I didn't do. Of what I never was.


Penned by my hand on the 16th of Variach, in the year 143 MA.