Shallow inadequacy,
Haunts the fruitless living hours of my mind.
The grotesque and mocking mask I portray
Is so ignored,
Regardless of changes
Made time and again,
A futile attempt to
Resculpt,
Relive.
No longer,
Does the jeering face of abuse look to me
No longer
Does the firebrand sear my flesh and bone
Awakening an inner torrent of spite
And raw hatred
Tempered by a cold fury.
No longer
Do the tormentors laugh and scorn,
Even they cease to care,
To derive pleasure from my broken form.
The shades of hate wash away
To a more deserving target,
Casting each former subject aside
A used and worthless toy.
One fell horsemen does visit me yet,
Drawing war within myself.
Sorrow, neglect, pain, self loathing,
How they mingle and fight,
Each other but united against one;
Myself.
They sabotage and deceive
Taunting my mind with ceaseless tricks,
Waiting, mocking,
For my pain to wash away
In a gorge of blood.
They are the darkness in my contemplations,
Weak.
And Pathetic.
