Hello Self-loathing,
my decrepit old friend.
You roil and toil in my age old brain.
A millennia of dust spiraling into
what I suppose could pass for memory.
A dead man has no need for shoes,
so I pad through the dust on bare souls.
The dirt is cool beneath my feet,
my bones below are cold too.
It seeps to my corpse underground
and the one hanging from the moon.
Her smile was cold and distant,
gently rasping I couldn't reach her.
I cannot love her openly, my mother would
hate-
but, still, yet, I reached out, hoping-
Self-loathing my old friend,
decrepit you may be
But you're the only one who'll stay.