Deplorable and horrible;  
              Despicable, abhor-able;
It reiterates, evaluates,
              Desiccates, and exacerbates . . .

It never fails, to fall too short,
But always fails as a support . . .

In an attempt to be freed, it misleads to bad deeds
And creates a hunger -- vacuous,
                               Yet, impossible to feed.
It chases the light away,
                               And it longs to be alone.
So I am so ashamed to say,
                               That in my skull,
                               It found its home.

So I'll fight and fight against it,
. . . But I'll always lose the battle.
It seems that even as I trudge ahead,
That somehow I still straggle.
It is the artist, I am the instrument.
Like a light bulb to its filament.
Every day I'm at the bottom,
Forced to climb back up the hill again.

But I think the day has come . . .
When I've finally stopped walking.
I've reached a door that can’t be opened,
And decided to stop knocking . . .

It's me and who I've become;
It's my actions and what I've done . . .
So, as much as I despise it,
It seems my brain, and I, are one.