The delusions of mankind are like shards beneath my feet, bruises on my skin, a fight that I can’t win. I’m drowning in a winepress of narcissistic hate. Peddled out to foolish trolls drunk on hurt and fame. 

They stomp it out, then bottle it up, and pass it off as love. But the mess that’s left behind is all but brushed under the rug. 

The fruit of the vine that keeps on giving, never stops, it carries on. When everything is taken, new life begins to grow. Gathered into compost, scattered in the fields, feeding all the new vines for generations yield. 

So you can throw me in the winepress of narcissistic hate. You can take what’s worth the giving and leave the rest to fate. But beware of the delusion that you’re the one in charge as you sip upon my vengeance and blackout in the yard.