He loathed everything.
Each new chance was simply a new loss.
His toil was fiery and passionate
Yet somehow always missed the mark.
One hundred percent was an unachievable fantasy;
Even eighty appeared unbreakable.
So, he turned his frustration outward
To forget about himself.
It was only natural.

But above all, he hated nothing
Because it made him realize all of this.
And no matter how gallant his evasion,
It was proved his only constant.
So he lived without a brain and without a heart,
For it was the only way he could continue.
And when he slept long enough to dream,
He remembered himself,
And dreamt that he would water the ground with his wrists.
It was only natural.