Right.
What is right?
Nothing that comes from me.
Wrong.
Am I wrong?
Doubtful; it's all I'll ever be.

Underappreciated.
Undeserving. Which weighs
heavier on my heart and mind?
My conscience is crippled
I can't count the ripples
of sadness chasing behind

Solitary isolation
From loving interaction
I wither, alone, inside myself
I wish to shred my skin to bits
Cry what I detest with every stitch

Am I right to feel
Anything at all?
Doubtful; I'm always wrong.