With each step I take
in an attempt to move forth,
I find myself the recipient of
a new objection to my worth.
With each hostile accusation
that I take in my stride
are scores more of insults
hurled at my pride.
I promise of my innocence,
I plead to be heard.
But who would vouch for my say,
who'd consider my measly word?
Every breath I take is
considered to be tainted.
They tell me I deserve it,
it's a world that I have painted.
With this burden on my head
that I can take no more,
I finally pull the trigger
to unfurl the hurt in my core.
With the last of my breaths,
painful, slow,
I ensure that the note
in my pocket does show.
The unwanted repitition of
the words of my soul
is perhaps the last thing
to make my worthless life a whole.
An apology, a cry
to my lovely wife of late,
"I'm sorry, my dear,
that I lost our battle with fate."