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