Your autobiography seems to be a blank page,

No alcohol can be mixed to make you interesting,

So perfectly mediocre and skillfully average,

Your voice seems as mundane as a foggy winter evening,

Completely unaware that you are fated for a life in purgatory,

You are as useful as a stone less engagement ring,

Even without gravity you still find a way to fall,

Tharmas you can never seem to get it right,

How do you expect to run when you can’t even crawl?

I am no Pygmalion I can’t paint beauty on your face,

I have no needle or thread to sew together your issues,

The tournament for you soul seems to be a rat race,

I lost destiny’s pen I can’t rewrite the ending this time.