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I flock home to bask in my splendor, but find discontent and a discerning eye.
​Woe is the judgement of the beholder. You are cunning yet cruel. We are not of the same mind. We eat from the same harvest, yet your grapes taste sour!
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Your judgement withers you, and you are left exasperated.
I dared to grow into something I call beautiful.
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You condemn me for wanting my own. You spite me for painting my vision.
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Am I not radiant?
And on this tway, thy begun to klay, a picture worthless slump hast sway
to dip and dope, on harrowed slope, in shame we skip away.
Slum now child, for act is done
steel thy temper, and swig anew
my moments end will sing-song true
All mimsy were the borogoves...
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