They call me Insane.
A profane past inflicted brutal wounds that are so deep and hollow,
It causes one to lose hope in the occurrence of a Tomorrow.
With cold hands, my core had been ripped open so wide
That it could never be “stitched up”-
Pieces of flesh and spirit that never will be placed back together;
There existed no ‘Band-Aid’ that could cover up;
No method of rehabilitation to make up what I had lost-
What was taken away from me, by force, had ran its course,
Now I am done -
Damaged and shunned,
Maybe this time Evil has won.
But I remember the days of that profane past;
Memories of your voice, and the shadow that you cast.
My eyes were open, and we felt my heart beat,
In that time, I was still alive. So I know.
I know that I will never be the same;
I am deformed, remolded, dismantled by pain,
And yet they call me Insane,
Because I pointed in your direction when they asked,
“Who is to blame?”