(Note: No false excuse here, but this could be better. But Martin is not quite a poet so it's accurate to him. Better to focus on the message than the style).
You spent your days wishing for fairytales,
but you lacked what they needed.
You were never brave enough,
charming enough,
good enough.
And you were pushed time after time
but each push drove you back further.
Your hand felt cold as it grasped your father’s sword,
your lifeline,
or so you hoped,
but fall winds carry cold words
and a symbol of indifference.
Companions you loved,
proved false intentions,
and fake smiles,
as they twisted you into something else.
And they did,
because you let them,
because you wanted it.
You wanted to be a hero,
you wished for it
and now all you hold is regret.
Didn’t you know?
Every hero ends up broken,
while fake smiles move onwards to their next champion.
Breath in the fairytales,
smile as they claw away at your lungs.
Spit the blood up upon the puddle at your feet.
And keep moving,
it’s done,
this is your path now.
And smile as you creep down the cold stairs,
down into the dark cellars
and past rooms of the broken bodies of heroes’ past.
And keep walking, keep bleeding, keep changing
until you are one of the corpses left behind
and your new self ascends into the light.
Stay there,
try to control your sobs,
as you are slowly buried,
beneath a mound of bodies and time.
This is what you wanted isn’t it?
Isn’t it?
Isn’t it.