There is always a time, where you have friends
Friends who you call family, and who you'd protect like family
For this, and this time alone, it gives more pain than death
For in death, that is all, quick light, then darkness
But, et tu, friend-family- you will turn against me?
Turn against me as had the entire world?
Make me a fool, look down upon me as lesser than the insects?
Trod upon me as if the rug of your home?
Why? WHY!?! Had I done nothing but try to be a faithful friend?
Be there and offer comfort whenever possible, assistance whenever needed?
Why did you go and do that? Why? Shall I call you 'Brutus' ? Or perhaps 'Benedict Arnold' would be more fitting a name?
Why is it, the wounds created by supposed friends, hurt the absolute most?...
Who are my friends....
Do I have any?....