Sickened by the anger felt within,
Nausea from a corrupted core.
Self-worth questioned by the self,
Love and hatred on Occam’s edge.
The overbearing weight of right,
flawed perceptions of actions done.
Deigns to reveal the hateful heart
prided on its falsest love.
How painful pride in self can seem;
I, that word which self adores.
Change lives? Or rather yet be
For time has proven clear enough
the rally cry of dust forlorn,
melancholy graduates from sobs.
Pour forth, anointed tears
into the splintered heart of masks.
The cracks grow deeper, reach within
as folly burns the righteous tasks.
Nailed to desperation’s cross,
a death has come and one is lost.
The meter cares not for form
when function serves to relay
the ruthless message borne within
there are no words where loathing stays,
and cries of why turned sheet white,
beg for falsehood to still delay.
Reality shatters broken wings
and no hope soars before the spring.