The Wretch


I'm still mystified

At my own shadow cast.

At times I think he's someone else -

A fragment of a distant past.

And only when he tans his darkest

Does he resemble me at last.

So I clasp my hands

And say a prayer to the dirt.

"Could you please wrap around me

In a filthy cloud

And show me what I'm worth?"

Maybe then I'll give birth

To an ember of a soul.

But as of now, I can't remember

Anything my angels told.

And I have no fans.

Just endless winds

That blow my words of sand

Across a world that'd rather

Leave me where I stand.

Strands of hair since soaked

In waterfalls of smoke

Sway for no breeze.

And only serve to cloak

My face from honesty.

It's possibly disease...

It's possibly not me... no... please

Don't let my knees tighten and buckle

At my self-applied abundant weight.

No... No... Dear clouds

Just let me taste a sugared puff

Of something chaste...

And maybe then I'll save some face...

But if I could see past the sun

I think I'd wither

At what lies beyond its gleam

And start to run,

Kick and fucking scream

Until I've whined myself to death

And drowned my lies in wine and rum

And monetary green...

How wretchedly obscene

Becomes this lullaby.

These sullen cries.

These random fucking rhymes

That serve no purpose

But to deconstruct a goddamn mind that isn't even thinking fine...

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