Bloody black sadness drips down like long shadows.
It’s all the dreams
that lie lonely and broken
in this walking tombstone that carries my name.
I call your name,
but you won’t let me in.
Though the door’s open
I cannot approach it.
I’m held back by shackles of sorrow and sin.
Worthless. Pathetic. I cry in the silence,
hurling self-epithets, wretched and wrong.
They curl about me
and swirl in the silence.
I’m the only one here to be pierced by my song.
The words settle down on me,
forming a coffin
of cold isolation
and bitter remorse.
They carved my epitaph
moment by moment,
written in bite-marks,
scarred over and coarse.
If a soul shatters alone in a forest
of onlooking tormentors gathered around
Does anyone there
who cares ‘nough to listen
hear the infinite ugliness steeped in the sound?
Is it repugnant,
that snapping staccato
I make when I come to the end of my rope?
A long fall, a short stop,
broken down by their words and drained of all hope.
A square of light is thrown down on the pavement,
It feels like the sunrise,
both painful and pure.
A black silhouette
stands framed by the brightness
and gestures for me to come through the door.
Worthless. Pathetic. Destructive and dirty.
I step forward and back in a hesitant dance.
I might just bite
any hand that I’m offered,
but just at this moment, I'll give me a chance.