I am a monster and it seeps through my clothes.
I think I'm broken way down to my soul.
A scarred collection of past reflection,
I've come to realize I'm not an exception.
The things I create in the comfort of night,
should not be praised, but viewed with in spite.
They embody my eternal strife.
The things that leave my sense behind,
and ****** my knuckles,
and pour tears from my eyes.
They are mine.
I love them blind.
I clean them up and make them nice.
Paint their wretched faces
and shine on them the brightest light.
What do you see?