Half of wreckless,
Half of greedy,
Half of anger,
Half of needy.

Half a God,
Other, mortal,
A gateway for two,
For worlds, I'm a portal.

Don't know who I am,
Useless, I've always felt,
Blood is shed among them,
As currency, death is dealt.

Fruit of the best kind,
Is all I want to give,
Hand-made, hand-cared, hand-picked,
For as long as I may live.

Kept under surveillance,
Under lock and key,
Something for safekeeping,
Special, just for me.

I keep it under wraps,
Secret, hidden away,
Saved for someone special,
For a very special day.

No one can see,
Before I deem them fit,
For the thing I hold dear,
So, deal with it.

About this thing,
I care too much,
To let some commoner,
Feel its touch.

Friendly, pleasant,
Easy to like,
Taking your stance,
Ready to strike.

Regardless of your antics,
I am not intrigued,
For I am not a simple man,
And I'm rather fatigued.

I don't understand,
Why you take your aim,
And fire for me,
I'm not the same.

Not like you,
Or up to standard,
Where you heard this,
Surely, it's slandered.

I'm not likeable,
So why you shoot for me,
Is unbeknownst by myself,
It's very hard to see.

You and I are different,
You, defined by popularity,
Then me, defined by smarts,
And my mundane ability.

You are you,
You're likeable,
This isn't the 1100s,
This isn't a round table.

What is shared,
Is to cherish,
Not to disregard,
Not meant to perish.

Love is a thing,
So delicate, fragile,
Distributed willingly,
Confirmed with a smile.

To give out this love,
Is a simple process,
Something achieved,
Simply needed to confess.

Your job is not difficult,
Just be you, so cute,
And I promise that my love,
To you, I will distribute.

In the bushes,
A man sits still,
A hole in his heart,
He yearns to fill.

By causing this pain,
On unsuspecting deer,
Causing their strife,
Sharing his fear.

How he does this,
Is poetic, at least,
Vicious and blood-thirsty,
This man's feast.

His heart is punctured,
So he punctures them,
With a bullet,
Sharp as a gem.

So he sits in bushes,
Before he announces,
His presence among them,
Then . . . he pounces.

War is a play,
A theatrical piece,
Readying the cast,
Before decease.

Props in hand,
Mics linked up,
To calm yourself,
Drink from death's cup.

A play for onlookers,
To watch and stare,
Ready before,
The speakers blare.

Before the crowds,
We are attacked,
A play repeated,
To reenact.