So I'm a villy and in real life may have told all my 'friends' to shove it, and now I got me and my demons
From dust I rose, no shadow marked my start, No evil seed was planted in my heart. I was not born beneath a wicked star, But forged in fires that left a burning scar. I walked the paths where sunlight used to gleam, A hopeful soul within a waking dream. Then cruelest hands did twist the tender thread, And poisoned waters filled the springs I fed. I sought for grace, I offered gentle plea, But scorn returned the kindness offered free. Each hopeful word met with a mocking sound, Until the solid bedrock turned unsound. I am not the phantom that you wished to find, The simple fiend designed to ease your mind. The villain you demand, with mustache curled, Is not the truth that shadows this dark world. I am the necessary, harsh repair, The bitter tonic that you have to bear. The shock required to shatter stale repose, The consequence that every action sows. The gentle face I wore, I cast it down, A hollow shell within a brittle crown. That smiling front, the pleasant, pleasing guise, Was just a mirror for your judging eyes. The pleasant mask lies shattered on the floor, I wear the truth that I can bear no more. This second visage, sharp and hard and grim, Reflects the world that made this visage him. My spirit burns with an acidic rage, Turned from the turning of an honest page. No single tear shall ever stain my cheek, The time for softness is the time I cease to speak. This heart is stone where softness used to grow, Because the seeds of mercy would not show. They choked on falsehood, strangled by the lie, Beneath the gaze of that indifferent sky. Who stands before you in this harsh display? Who trades the dawn for everlasting grey? The title fits, though earned through grievous cost, The villain claimed for everything that’s lost. This spinning sphere, this theater of strife, Demands a purge to recommence its life. A grand erasure, clean and sharp and wide, Where truth and consequence can safely ride. Or else, perhaps, a simpler, softer way, If men would learn compassion day by day. If gentle hands replaced the striking blow, And seeds of understanding learned to grow. But those who threw the stones that broke my frame, Are they themselves untouched by guilt or blame? The silent martyrs that you cast aside, Are they not mirrors where your failings hide? I will not bend, I will not kneel again, To soothe the fears of self-deceiving men. I am the answer to the shouts you sent, The harsh conclusion of a life misspent.
