I wish I was more of a fool,
Whose only happiness is to make folly my desires;
Nonsense to which I assented my ego,
To err the only decency I fondled.
I wish I was more of a coward,
Whose only dismay is I myself being a hero;
A morsel of gallantry is scattered,
Losing the identity of a knight errant.
I hate it when I become so enthused,
With the thing most of the people hate;
Or perhaps I am just so fond of pretensions,
Candidly spoiling the inceptive of sanity.
I hate it when the heart's debacle is unmasked,
Becoming too mundane to obscure;
Dragging me to the abyss of deception,
Desperately seeking for my lost soul.
What can I be to you? A scoundrel perhaps?
A naught would be much appalling too;
It gives me no option for bliss,
Nor the dire longing for a kiss.
I walk leaving with no trace.
Head held up like a king with no crown;
Wide enough my kingdom it may seem,
My queen I lost, my treasure I wasted.
How can I get up from below,
Deserting the future it may offer;
I can only do a little with what I have,
Constantly waning from what is left inside.
I wish of my own stupidity, bragging it loosely,
Claiming my own ardor in disdain;
The desolation was never in my mind,
Until I lost my fervor, my amity, my love.