this self-loathing is too much for me to bare.
i mean i bare everything:
the actions, the words,
the snickers with
an inflamed chest.
and the struggle cannot be conquered;
i am no soldier, no fighter - subhuman.
i struggle for a sense of purpose
like an infected toilet brush
or maybe a half-chewed pencil eraser. quality beats quantity
but i cannot quantify how many tears i have shed
or the glass-stained memories
that leave ****** scratches on mind.
all along there was no end to this journey,
but shattered dreams paint a more vivid picture
than happiness ever could.