• So insignificant, miniscule.
    Yet so heart-wrenching, painful, and cruel.
    But this is all inside your head.
    The past is gone. The past is dead.

    So what's the point in all this pain?
    There really isn't much to gain.
    And yet you salt the open wound,
    And smile, laughing through your doom.

    It's all a mask, a good one, too.
    And it is letting you fight through.
    But is it really combat-based?
    Or do you simply have no taste?

    No taste outside you man-made world,
    Your calloused hand, in a fist, curled,
    Remaining with you, till the end,
    Forever being your best friend?

    For power is a point of view.
    Some look beyond it, they are few.
    But we, the rest, we pull ourselves.
    And through the dungeon we all delve.

    But stop to think. Who's the DM?
    And can you really blame all them?
    Because it's really all inside,
    The part of you, that SHOULD HAVE DIED.

    And at the end, a tiny blurt:
    "Oh, ********. Oh, ********. Why does it hurt?"