Regards to My Somethingness

Imperfection.

 

No trace of rapture lingers in torment.
She, who cannot love herself,
is without peace in mind and body.

 

Bound within a vision of insanity,
this point-of-view, a fantasy,
is disturbed, although never woken.

 

They are my calling,
these remnants of corrupt self-loathing -
this surreality.

 

I am outcast.
While my remains will be forgotten,
play forever, my fractured harmony.

This poem is about: 
Me

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