bad luck, Depression, Disappointments, helplessness, mark of Cain, poem, Poetry

An Imprint of Mortification

I feel like I have the Mark of Cain.
A God-given curse that puts everything in vain.
No matter what you do or how hard you try.
Though you sweat again and again,
The soil that you toil will forever be dry.

Cain was cursed as punishment for his deed,
And a tremendous punishment he did receive.
A long life of hardship was in store.
Wandering aimlessly to a foreign shore.

Flash forward to my life of grief and torment.
A life where there is no such thing
as an opportune moment.
A life where I am hailed the ignoble king.

The ruler and lord of dreadful luck.
A life where fate decided not to give a fuck.
Almost every chance has been pulled away and plucked.
Opportunities I struggled to dig up from the muck.

I’ve swam through the river of blood
and fought the monsters that inhabits it.
I’ve crossed hanging bridges and scorching cities
so I could satiate the need of my gastric pit.
But the deluge of misfortunes are too much of a flood.

Now it seems there is nothing left for me,
as another chance once again eluded me.
I cup my face in my hands and somberly die,
as I deeply exhaled a defeated sigh.

Hopelessness is an emotion of great magnitude.
It brings a person to his knees, no matter how positive his attitude.
I now tire of eluding fate’s cruel grasp,
so I despondently stare as it tightens the clasp.

I feel as though I have the Mark of Cain.
Protected from death, but not from pain.
Forced to live a life where chances slip by.
Cursed to live this life, wishing I could die.

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