Like the blade of a great warriors sword,
Like the sheer drop at the end of a cliff,
Like the tip of the helmet on the head of a great lord,
Like the feeling when you enter a teenagers room and you get that first whiff.
He writes poetry about revenge,
He outs his hair over his left eye,
He thinks his purpose in life is to avenge,
He pretends to hack because he wishes he was a spy.
An excruciatingly edgy boy,
A boy who just turned thirteen,
A person who tries to not feel joy,
A boy who likes to demean.
A sharp tongue he uses to cut people down,
His words never kind but like bullets he sends through people's hearts,
His ideologies like water in which people drown,
In hatred he soaks the people that can he cannot outsmart,
But that is the one fact that he is too arrogant to admit,
For he created a mask made of anger and sorrow to wear,
Causing anyone to dismiss him with something to befit,
The mask that he wears leaving him to say he's actually nice,
Which is a thing that only few can swear.