And what's the point of it? 

The world just keeps on turning 

like nothing ever happened. 

Why would anyone ever care

about what I did or stopped doing?!

Why would they remember me? 

And, even if it happened, 

what would they remember?

The kid or the man?

The poet or the killer?

The someone or the no one?

I stay up at night 

trying to find an answer for this,

but a clear image 

always pops up to my head.

Failure. That's my name.

They'll only see the ruins 

of the temple I used to be,

and will rejoice on the destruction 

of him who never got 

to portray the strength he hid.

They'll see my tomb and laugh,

my bones will be a matter of laughter for them.

And I... I'll be deemed to the 

worst punishment of them all:

I shall be forgotten.