We've seen the Angel of Death
Coerced- his hands we become
His hollow countenance, our own

So many numbered wretches
Disguised as hollow drones
Stalk the night

Fighting non-existent thrones

The empty expression, brow bent in deep thought
The humans we used to be
A garden of seedlings in desperate need

The tide rises quickly

These ideas can save us
Or they can tear us apart
Once we've destroyed the concept
Of the celebrated self and love of art

We can begin the process of growing up

Completely spent
We bit the apple, bought the lie
Exploited the poor and boy did we rise
We snapped those necks and boy did we thrive

I smile in the face of madness,
Just to encourage the sadness.
Dancing on a cliff edge,
Where it drops into darkness.
And I hide behind my sleeves,
So that intrusive eyes leave.
Everyone has their sin,
It's just that mine's achieved.
Yet I punch a wall inside my head,
To watch the knuckles bleeding red.
There's in my mind, and what's outside.
So I sit quietly instead,
And spectate the defectives,
Third person perspective.
I see a TV screen with 3D glasses,
Mirrored and deflective.
I try to be witty,
Instead I'm viewed with pity.
It's a look I thought I'd hate,
But instead it's rather pretty,
At least on your face.
With permanent disgrace.
You tried to lend a hand,
But your care was misplaced.
So I dance on alone,
It's the only thing I've known.
And sit upon my throne,
Made of heartache and her gravestone,
And built by late night, missed calls on the phone.

I tried to be a man that's patient:
someone kind and calm,
open and understanding.
Someone who felt other’s pain
who didn't let it turn him cold.

You see, their lack of trust
wasn't entirely their fault...
they grew up stunted:
watching their father
abuse their mother.

Or, in his absence they grew up
without him ever there:
erratic, extreme emotions;
thunderclouds of anger,
thus implanted self-hatred.

Then he would return, amusing,
funny - the centre of attention.
Other times he was miserable
or an erratic, manic-obsessive,
a hopeless compulsive mess.

Their mothers stayed quiet
took the lashings, the outbursts
to keep the fragile peace,
while they internalising them,
kept feeling it was their fault.

Innocent, naive, hurt, numb
always feeling like a stranger.
Home?  a war zone where
words were irrational, erratic
weapons of mass destruction.

They learned to hurt others
to protect themselves.
They witnessed human weakness;
the unreliable became friends,
the consistent the enemy.

They grew shy and reserved
couldn't stand the spotlight
their skins  made them anomalies
spectacles, defectives, tattooed
victims with emotional scars.

Rejected by the outside,
no place to call a home
let alone a safe haven.
They numbed every inch of pain,
outcasts. Or so they  thought.

Once in a while their anger
would burst out unexplained,
their heart would pound and
their body would shake
over the slightest inconveniences.

Their  thoughts expressed:
"Am I like:my father?
Bipolar, violent, irrational?"
Often flooded their minds.
I believed their words – empathised.

“I deemed myself unworthy
of consistency, reliability,
happiness, trust and love.
I preyed on the weak
they reminded me of my mother.

I destroyed my body
with any drug or liquor
that I could get my hands on.
Denying myself of food,
Starving myself of love.”

For years and years and years,
I helped them stumble  upon peace:
once I explored the inner crevices
They surrendered to the war within
and stopped abusing themselves.

Years of therapy.
Countless hours of running
notebook after notebook
Of poetry and musings,
they learned to let go and love.

The trouble, you see
is often lack of self-love:
my perceptions revealed it.
They finally learned to trust:
I've fought one hell of a battle.

I was a Social Worker.

TOBIAS.