The Ill of Image

You paint your place from men of old

Who knew no more than stern and pain.

Lap up the flaws that they have sold

And sear them into your brain. 


So young in body but aged in mind

You must inflict your close to suffer

Your fury at your self, that finds

The struggles you so hoped for. 


This part you play in lieu of self

Springs victims in your wake.

You will live alone in poor health

And enjoy it for your sake. 

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sometimes we are our worst

sometimes we are our worst enemy