Sore Loser
It started off as a game
It always does
First it’s pleasant
You go first they go second
Roll the die, 6 and 3
Move 9 spaces
It’s a simple rule
Or at least it should be
But then it happens
They will make sure they roll a 5 and a 5
Competition thrives and superiority triumphes
God forbid you were good at something, just anything
What happened to the friendly game?
Whose turn is it now
Consider yourself lucky if they give you a chance to exist
All simplicity is lost
Every person for themselves
Let us not pretend this is still a game
Does anything about this sound like the roll of dice
Or does it sound like the roles we play in our day to day lives ?
Something wrong with this poem?
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