Pointed Fingers

I stood there in solitude,
clutching onto the revelation of being the unwanted outcast.
They suspect my past a bleak existence, a gloom.

I`m unable to step into the room, full of they, monsters as I say.

Regardless of my distress,
they continue to test my patience.
Drenched in humiliation as they glare, while I stare myself down.

Swine their words, like vines with thorns piercing into my heart as I`m torn.

They enjoy my corruption perform the bloodshed while I mourn in silence.
Unable to submit to the violence as I scream hard into the pavement.
Looking into my clear dismay as entertainment.

Hollow their denial, my ripped up dreams in a pile.
Dull my senses, convulse the mocking tension.
Self inflicted mutilation jaded.
Why am I the one who's hated?

Insignificant my presence,
Insufficient my being.
My insanity injected,
how am I so affected by their discontentment?
Of a soul so sentimental, spite the ignoblity they depend to live on.

And their hidden desire to witness my one hope gone.
Mediocre the names, they intend to slay me with.
Freak, goth the insult streak.
One day my hate will be found and will not be bound by reason.

But the fear to linger in front of their pointed fingers.