Continue living by spite,
or just die without fight.
Secrets with demons
are rarely seen outside the dark.
I tried to stay alive,
to keep the light—
but I was born
without an emotional heart.
Scars attach
to my inner soul.
No ego traps of pride
echo through my mind.
Acts of shame—
the stained glass windows
to the deeper parts
of my brain.
Relapsed into my triggers;
down the rabbit hole
I go again.
Pity is the sickness
to a sickened man.
I aimed to hit the moon,
yet my dice rolled
them eyes again.
Steel traps—
one day I hope
to pry within,
just to somehow recollect
memories present
of a friend.
I’ll never accept
the pleasure of content.
Misprinted lies,
my lust confides
a torment.
Ingrained in battle lines,
life no longer feels worth giving.
Death begins to look
like an escape
from this prison.
The mission
appears distant.
Addiction infractions
on my mind.
Step aside—
my life’s been conflicted
since prior to the age of five.
Behind the hidden veil
are reasons
I mark my body
to tell a story—
unimportant, perhaps,
as the world may never read it.
If blessings equal received gifts,
imagine how much of a curse it is
if they remain secreted.
But the speaker is ignored,
overlooked by the world
for what their perception is.
When I die,
I wonder what they’ll serve
as the reception dish.
Will my extended living manuscript
be given to the end
in delayed recognition—
a glimpse
of trapping pain
in sentences.