Inside my polished surface,
my seas are in constant disarray,
the soul, its sweet nectar that fills every crevice.
violent; angry; bitter soul.

Inside my mental shell of self protection,
and the "person" it protects
from the poison that spews from my heart
my soul speaks to me; it reminds me I am weak
violent; angry; bitter soul.

I know well that there is no escape,
no sculptor can prefect; the stone that is broken
no painter can fix; the lines that have bled
no poet can create; emotions which no longer exist
I drag the stones of my own damnation
eternal ; violent; angry; bitter soul.

As time passes, my exterior becomes unpolished
manicured hands become wrinkled and weak,
legs of harden meat, become toothpicks
time is constant,
there is no escape,
but one thing remains
my eternal, violent, angry bitter soul. . .
    that weeps for you. . .