god's poem


the flavor of woe
rolling off my tongue,
it is undeniable
that i grow
thin as the clock
drags me down
its wooden staircase
tearing through
my skin as well
as bruising my
pride and reputation
in several well-placed
blows where i am most
vulnerable.
i regret that i have
worn out my welcome
and it will soon be time
to take my place
among the ancient
ruins of your nightmares,
i forget that nothing
could have been versed
so perfectly as to
rid you of your contempt
for every failed
attempt at finding
me in yourself,
or becoming the man
of your dreams
by talking to ghosts
and relics of my
distant past,
my human livelihood
spilt in unforgiving
blood, and spat upon
by those who
could not and will never
understand what it
really meant
to suffer so
passionately.




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