The tourniquet of my interests falls in pieces on the floor
This life of which I’m falsely convinced is lost forevermore
Battered and embattled by a hateful mind and spite
Centered on the selfishness of all who pray and fight
I wonder as I squander every chance given to me
Perhaps my ego can end this self-defeating cycle finally
At every chance I know there is a hope, a hidden flame
But then I snuff it with great force just to feel the pain
Convinced that all that’s real is dark and cold in reach
The kingdoms of happiness are stolen from my feet
Messages and couriers dethrone my silent howl
Tailors and tyrants quickly strip me of my cowl
And all the sailors at the bar are eager to make a joke
At my expense and thus invent the reason for my yoke
Spoken like a hero lost whose heart is torn in twain
The damsel, she regards me as though I’ve gone insane
Perhaps I have, perhaps it’s true that all my chances passed
But now I know that it is just my fate to live the past
Scarcely, sacred scared secrets spill upon the floor
Little dreamlets drop like dew upon my morning door
And whisked away from winter’s whiskered, wispy whine
I hope and hold the life and love that glimmers on the vine
Crushed within my bitter grasp, I move in self-defense
For though I hold my own success, to me it makes no sense
For my art is born of hate and thus my only hope
Is to be unhappy, yes- to be bitter but never to mope.
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