MYSELF

I have a myriad of scars, all compared to the hatred Ive bared, to the life Ive declared usless.
Why I have strangled myself in a rope braided of my veins, ripped from my reality as my blood drips
Down the page.
My head heavy, eyes weak, my knees giving in and my breathing becomes gasps as my lungs collapse.
Grasping at nothing but lies from the past.
Forgivin by nothing, and only remembered by the ideas.
Ideas that I could have been somthing, other then flesh to be fed to the ants and worms.
The stories burn as they caress me with there falsities, I linger in the atrocities.
The same ones that I brought upon myself, as I dug myself deeper.
Digging down for freedom, but not realizing that the heavens faced up.
Running from my hell, not perceiving that the only one I needed to run from, was the person I created.
Myself.

DEAD TO ME

Scratch my arms to dig within, leaving dried blotches of blood, like red wine stains polluting my skin.
They say, to harm ones self is a great sin, but the lies I tell are even greater.
Hiding myself behind a mask, My eyes give away the past, they show my hatred and my desire.
But the words I speak only bring me higher. They give me my crown, which my head carries heavily.
Leaving me a sinner with a crown, but no- one to respect me.
I am dead to me.