A baby’s tears first sprout from the catalyst of being

Being isn’t enough to quell the pain it brings, not even upon suckling the
milk from its mothers teat does the baby sleep

After crying, crawling, walking, and speaking comes the first true lesson

The Crown of Disappointment is set upon after hearing those words

You have your name and you are a bastard

You were a burden

This can never be changed

Labels will follow you as they follow everyone in this world

Some are black, queer, white, dogs, cats, ghetto, rich, redneck, inclusive,
or separatist

To be in this country is to play a role defined by an abstract color that
doesn’t match any natural skin tone.  The world is against you, the individual, who is defined by parentage

Upon constructing this bellowing thought, your parents have lost their baby, their child, their star child wonderer, their glowing miracle, their prince or princess

The bastard has ambition with roots so deeply ingrained into the mess of dirt far below that of any conceivable length from which the heat at the earth’s core becomes a dear miserable friend

The heat from below is a hell pit to most, but the bastard is one that relates to no one, not even another bastard in the world of cold sorrows that know what they know the most

Once climbing to every occasion with great wit and a temper, with tactful strength and a whimper, yet no common knowledge of where it shall lead

Sleeping is an escape, but the dreams never trick or shake that very notion, that so heavy weight, that the Crown on your head continues to place

Breaking the cycle is by no means to marry, but to become parents that care for their children

This can never be changed

You may share a last name of your father or mother, or perhaps the name of both, one day

But the truth will be told to you by someone who seems as though they care, yet instead they bear witness to the worst of you as an heir

These words are only as true as the bastard allows them to be

The Crown of Disappointment is a crown with many shapes, sigils, and

If not for the bastard, then for skin, or for scars, perhaps due to sin, or
maybe postpartum set in

After all of the crying, the crawling, the walking, and speaking comes many lessons

The first is beyond the bastard’s control

The rest are up to the bastard

The bastard can be the strongest of all

For without a dark history, or perhaps one just landing outside of the box

A bastard doesn’t have to climb far before turning back, discovering that
they have risen to the very tip top of the iciest blocks

That heat inside settled by the core, warms them, helping them to continue doing more

Until they may lose sight and become what they had so vehemently despised

But that is a tale that fits many, hiding in plain sight, with no need for a

Breaking the cycle is to play the game, playing the game is to lose without

A new baby is born from the sins of the father and that of the mother

The truth will be known to you and because you do truly care, you keep it
inside for no one to bear witness, so that history may grow for the betterment of your heir

A baby’s tears first sprout from the catalyst of being

Being isn’t enough

You have your name

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