I keep asking myself, how will it be remembered at the end of this all?
History is afterall, the victors' anthem.

What you say may not be what others hear.
What you do is not what others see.

What do I mean?
You shouldn't be wondering. This is afterall your teachings,
and I've learnt well.
They say friends are the hardest to impress.
So I have found an explanation to your compassionless, mirthless, eyes
that too often gleam with the hunger and contempt
that frightens me.

You believe you know me in ways that the crowd do not.
the people's eyes are veiled you say.
And maybe you do,
maybe they are.
Afterall, immortals among immortals are but mortals, and a beautiful pavement is cracked and parched up close.
But are you to discover all my inadequacies and resent me for them?
You forget that I'm an imperfect weed.
And you forget that you were supposed to be sun, rain and earth for me.
All the world to me.

If you think I am wearing shoes too large for my feet,
be brave and tell me straight in the face.
Your face betrays you, my friend.
It does not sadden me half as much to know this,
than to have had to find out for myself.
If you say "build a bridge,"
build a bridge!
Why have all these accolades sanded down foundations time after time,
so we've been left to pick up the pieces and build again!

Dear, greatest hypocrite of them all.
Your skin is barely enough to cover your own lust for power.
You need a mask.

Correct me if I am wrong,
(and not behind my back like you always do)
but you have pounced on my every mistake and made them your crowns.
Your little whispers, the silent tantrums,
and most of all, the curl of you lips like a slicker ready to harvest my flaws.
You disgust me.
Your sigh,
like a cloud of putrid smoke to be swatted away.
And I loathe these with all the rage of one,
tormented by an inexplicable lack of self-sufficiency.
Despite all.

So history will be written and let history be written.
You will make your own story,
and I'm sure you needn't be told to
tell it to the world.