There is something wrong with me,
something dark and lurking
made for hurting
the hearts of other
human beings;

A deeply fractured,
vision’s aperture
that sees
all of these
horrible things.

Slimy tendrils
crawling through
broken bits
of mirrors
I show to
all of you.

Wings of leather
made for flapping,
dark as the cosmos
thunder clapping,
and consuming
all the light that was moving
across this floating sphere.

Shadows and nightmares
worked from the scraps of
this horrendous reality
I see stretched out before me
on a torture rack of human cruelty.

I am certain I could be
the king of better artistry,
present lighter shades
of this reality,
but something deeply damaging
keeps pressing poetry
on modern technology
for the whole world to see
the fruits of my social anxiety.