I Cannot (A Historical Fictitious Poem)
There are so many emotions to feel, yet not enough words to express them.
Only a few escaped to the surface. The rest are so deep that they flow like a neverending river that some want to enter and take a swim.
My present life is the way it is due to a horrible twist of fate, because of delvers participating in occult practices.
So many things have gone through my mind as I lay on the cold dungeon floor at Wildemore Castle.
Master Slaughterdoth glared at me while I rattled my chains, and calmly asked, « Why the hassle? »
My body lies flat as the birds feast upon my brain.
Every now and again blood flows from my head through my nose like rain.
Shall I slowly wilt away?
Every other peck against my skull brings forth a clot.
As the night for me comes to an end, my final thoughts are sent to you telepathically before my eyes close shut upon the final hour.
Your disappointment in me causes you to explode in rage with a natural frown that has appeared on your face.
And, a taste in your mouth that has turned sour.
Time and time again you reminded me of the many sacrifices you have made when I was a lass.
Somehow I feel as if my sacrifices have been greater in my short lifespan.
This is compared to the days of my life in the form of an hourglass filled with sand.
Out of the many sacrifices I have made, this included the exploitation and use of my own body, so that tasty meals could be provided to our family.
What a feast, uh.
Anyone want any more Jester Ken’s pizza?
I am sorry that I am now powerless to keep you on a pedestal and in continued comfort.
I am sorry that I have accomplished more than your beloved son.
There now. My guts have been spilled.
Would you like them served on a silver platter?
You were told who to send your son to for proper guidance.
Yet, you ignored the suggestion.
Instead, you allowed your past, jealousy, loathing, and possible self loathing to get in the way.
There is nothing else really for me to add nor say.
I feel as if you do not feel for me like you should.
Now I have grown tired and weary.
I guess it is a little insane to wish to return, again like the phoenix.
And, then, again, the more I think about this, my eyes get a little teary.
All of the shillings in the world cannot buy a turnaround for the best concerning our past.
I cannot tell you what you want to hear.
If I did, I would be the biggest liar and hypocrite.
Sometimes I wish I could.
And, most of all, I cannot make you love me the way I feel you should.