If I were cruel I would say, “It must suck to be you,” but I do not. There is more than the surface reveals.

I know your soul aches. Hot blazing, infuriating pain emanates from your body leaving you with a bunch of unfocused, untangled emotions. Trapped by your own feelings you are burdened beyond belief so much so you scream and your cries are never heard. You physically cannot contain yourself as evidenced by your constant movement. You are as restless as the wind, but even the wind has purpose in its melodious whistling tune.

It must be a glorious burden to exalt yourself, believing the world is your stage. For you your pontificating must sound melodious. To us walls it is the incessant babbling of a bubbly, bubonic, blundering buffoon.

You look in the mirror and think you see someone great, but I see a caricature. Your spirit man morphed by your soulless ways like your twin the Hunchback of Notre Dame. The green vomit of envy drooling down your check, with a trickle of a tear in your eye.

You devour nothing and eat everything. With all you are getting you still have nothing. Detached is your heart. Desolate is your companion, death is your mantra and lonely is your soul.

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