I've lived the kind of pain they write about
In the tales of heroes,
who came and went without
Salvation or celebration; and,
instead, became close friends of doubt.
When luck leaves your side,
And there's no one left watching . . .
There is no martyrdom.
No heaven to fall from. No damnation.
Just *nothing.
Nothing and no one*.
But I won't let myself succumb
To the temptation
of self-righteous certainty,
false justifications, or
egotistical self-mutilation -
Just to bleed on those who lay
Below my lowly elevation.
Not like you.
I am not made like you.
No longer, will I distort my own view
To lie to the few, who stand with me in the fire.
It's true.
I am a worthless piece of shit,
and even I can hardly stand it
when I speak about myself.
But this time . . .
It's about more than me.
And, for once, I'm going to spend well the wealth,
That I was given and didn't earn,
On those who showed me how to learn
And to never become like you.
Yes -
I am judgmental and self-loathing.
I am selfish and I am wrong.
I am naive, and strung out and strung along.
But I
am not made
like you.
I am strong.