I hate myself.
No,
Not the person I am now.
The man underneath the cloque.
Who I can't escape,
In heat of a moment,
And well into the night.
I hate myself.
No,
Not who I envision myself to become.
The man who sees red,
In meaningless affairs,
Like pebbles on the road
And simple misunderstandings.
I hate myself.
No,
Not who I fight to be.
I hate the never-ending chase,
Carrying a subservient smile,
Yet aware of being followed,
Cached at a moment's notice,
In miserable err.
I hate myself.
No,
Not who I self-discipline each day.
Who I fight to suppress,
Amongst layers and layers,
Of books, activities,
Layers of thin paper like stoicism.
Wide to the naked eye,
Small to the sword wielder.
To better means,
You deviate from the standard.
Not the one posed by society,
The one you truly are,
At your very core.
To better means,
Your improvement is predicated,
On situations that might bring you back,
Back to who you believed,
To have left behind.
Every day I put on these shackles.
Sometimes, less and less,
The loosen at times,
And a warm summer breeze
Is met with a cold reality.
My origin,
My nature since birth,
Comes back to haunt me.
And I'm back to square one...
I hate myself.
And yet
I despise pointing,
In any direction.
I'm tired...
To have a good day,
To experience growth,
Only means,
Failure,
Not today,
Not tomorrow,
Is but at some point.
What does growth mean?
What does it represent?
Within the confines,
Of who I am?
Is it catching myself eventually?
Is it self-discipline after failure,
After my memory has ran rampant?
Will it one day be enough?
Or will my rage once more,
Be tilted towards
Our mixed nature,
And free will.
I hate myself...
And yet
I have high hopes.
For whom I see in the mirror reflected.
YOU ARE READING
Abroad
PoetryThe purpose of this poetry book is one of defiance. Not to others, or anything in particular. It is against the war we wage internally, against ourselves every day. There is no bigger challenge in life than facing your thoughts, your true emotions...
