This poem is a place to purge my soul of dark and sad and grievance old tracing the timeline backward, away to my life as a child, listless days The men who won't have me and the few who do The hurting ache of physical roles and the relief of finished holes I dedicate this to a brother, half-awake all the friends I've let go for their little mistakes and the hours every day I ran while out of fuel through my ruined lands For my inability to love or feel or wish to the loser in my life who caused it and my mother who feels the fault and my skin that has scars self-inflicted I have an ode to share with future self wealth, health, and ache keeps you alive it serves to remind It is alright if you have already died