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.
I am a worthless *******, 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.