How wasteful is a life's pursuit
That spent in seeking
Love, kinship, fortune, and fame,
That render a soul reeking.
Reeking with ghastly desires
Expectations bred to shatter.
They say you'd be alone without,
To me they do not matter.
Self-love is the most precious love;
Or that of the Creator,
The only kin is that of self,
Fame and fortune are just chatter.
The social race is a grotesque scare,
A mad stampede of the socially ill.
My dignitary backseat at life's play
Saves my soul's goodwill.
This vendetta; against the world,
Is never bound to cease.
I can mend my ways no more,
I do not live to please.
[Composed July 11, 2015 while fighting the demons during pre-dawn, Sehri, hours]
[Vendetta Against The World Collection]