Tired

Tired.

This weary soul
Feels nothing,
But contempt for the weak, pity for the strong,
And a lack of empathy for the tragic.

This soul, fatigued,
Is as the endless abyss
Black, empty, deathly cold.
Void of commiseration.

This weary soul,
Does not care, for you, and your petty troubles,
Childish accomplishments, moronic glee.
Fools.

You know not what you cherish.
You hold men as gods, and gods as men.
You glorify the false, and shun the truth.
You live in a plastic-cast world, moulded to your ideals.
Yet you are not happy.

You amuse me, with your spiteful acts,
Dramatic little tantrums,
Petty infighting, your obsession with trauma.
You hold Love in high esteem, yet you know not love.
But a glass parody.

From my vantage point,
Beneath you all, unclouded by emotion,
I see your every weak moment, every flaw.
I weigh your worth.

This weary soul,
Feels nothing, but fatigue.