I always found myself
stopping mid-sentence
gargling
on warped words
because things
never
seemed right. “They never do, do they?”

I don’t
have the courage to ex-
press it
or maybe
because I think it
isn’t fair for
only the noble can dream
or so I’ve guessed.

Sometimes
I fear it’s like
soldiers fighting
for the sake of fighting,
fighting
against unknown enemies because
they simply exist:
like thinking I’m the only
soldier left
marching on
so I wage war because I’m alone,
against nobody
and nothing at
all.

A soldier of fortune fighting against fate.

I suppose it’s
wrong to be earnest
and right to be deserving

because my world is a storybook
and I am both
its protagonist and author.

I couldn’t
possibly
be right though,
when I am but
an antagonist:

an anti-hero at best.