In a wordy battle with trivial dogmatic mentalities , I win by sandwiching my perspectives between my upper lip tubercle and lower lip tubercle.

Truth will always win
though the arrogant seem tall.
The man who says there is no cliff
will be the first to fall.

The mirrors whisper secrets
Little tidbits of advice
Reflections of a washed up zealot
Being optimistic to pull me from this ever-clenching vice

Torn, tattered, broken, battered
Claimed exaggeration from these hushed murmurs
Self destruction evident, nothing really matters
Tugging on my mind; the zealot’s cheery sermons

“Happiness is key
And the key is universal...”
But no one ever thinks to be
Something ultimately omniversal

A tool to be used constantly for general amusement
A tool to be ignored when no longer needed
A tool to be picked for sadistic abusement
A tool to be deluded, guilted, always twisting to the greeded

And like the calm before the inevitable storm
The tool dances to the tunes the varied user creates
Suicidal pursuit nightly, heart never warmed or warned
Staring back at the zealot is me; whispering dogmatic secrets of self-hatred.