Dear Reader,

I worked hard for you,

Composed words into phrases,

Diluted my thoughts into a cocktail of joys,

And painful truth and I,

I pressed my palms into my eyes when tears,

Beat against them,

I mourned the death of my darling words,

I killed the weak ones and fed them to the strong,

And every day I toiled into the fields of damned letters,

Wrestling with my brain and the hopes that lie dormant,

Within,

But I know,

It is hopeless.

I crafted these words, these lives, these places,

This world,

For you.

I cut through mountains and carved,

Smooth paths for you,

To walk,

And I opened the gates,

And let you stride right into my heart.

But you shat on my throne,

You burned down this home,

A home I had made,

For you,

And you laughed,

You mocked,

You did not care,

And worse.

Some of you dear readers

Did not even embark,

On the path I laid,

You ignored the world I labored over,

And you ignored my soldiered words,

The tired words,

The strong words,

The unheard vowels that echo,

In caverns of unturned pages.

And you, reader, left me with nothing,

Just this untraveled road,

And this writhing heart,

The wasted hours, days,

Years,

Pile upon me like rocks to crush,

And you don't even watch me die,

You don't care.

But why should you?

I am the fallen,

The worthless,

I understand even as I write,

That nothing I can give,

Will be enough,

Nothing I have,

Will be received.

I beg you Reader,

Respect the writer,

They bleed for you,

Give their lives for you,

And in the end,

They emptied their hearts,

Knowing full well,

You would never understand,

No matter how hard we try,

To help you see,

Hear,

Touch,

Taste,

Feel.

But you won't.

You never will.