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I was born a terrible mess
Twisted in the womb
I was posed for death
In preparation for my future,
My reverse Midas touch,
I turned everything to rust.
I was a terrorist,
My family;
My victims.
They chose to love me;
I chose to attack.
Deported, disowned;
The little black sheep
Drove up the state; keep me Away.
Nightmares were abysmal,
Kept me twisting
In the night.
My youth didn’t receive me,
It kept me a hostage.

I made a friend, she kept shards
Of perfection in her pocket,
Took them out now and then
To cut herself
We became an Empire,
Or rather a whirlwind,
A swirling, spinning vortex
Of incomprehensible fear.
A projection of our hatred
Of whom we had become,
We suffered,
Endless, midnight phone calls.
Then I was a rain cloud
I stared at the ground
Until I wandered into traffic
Hoping to end my pitiful existence.
I was saved by a Good Samaritan;
She concerned herself with my
Feeble attempts at death.

I’ve been like the wind,
I’m always moving;
Still invisible,
Still bitter.
I’ve become a starving artist.
I’ve rejected the water and bread
So they force fed me tar and
The battlefield blood of men


My tears are ink,
They flow onto pages
And form angry words
They spell out my story,
From alpha to end.
They say
I will die an awful mess,
Twisted in the tomb,
I’ll be posed for death.