I Love Malice

I still question why I became a poet back in the day Perhaps it was too reflect my terrible depression to keep me astray Eventually, I learned of Shakespeare and his work He became my bane and hatred towards people in the literal world As much as I write, I realized it was pointless My work can never be as infamous as his It was too late, his work was too great The current times I live can never be amazed by my words He lived in a time where discoveries were vast, people were more vulnerable than they can ever be His work was a supernatural never before seen I am but another pawn to society, why is my words relevant? Why Should it be relevant? My poems can never match his, Time made sure of that. Even as I write with these tiresome hands, I am dying. A poor soul born in a arrogant time vs. a light who can afford to do as he wishes I was never a player.