Perhaps I don’t belong anywhere.

At times I feel as though all that I do

is but a waste of someone

else’s time and that the friendship

I offer is but seen as rusting decay.

 

To take each heart I’ve broken

and see it corrode in the flesh of my palms,

to see it perish under the scrutiny

of insane composition and to share that

wild word with a world that doesn’t care

is to punish and pound my head

into the mud and dirt and yet my

fingers won’t stop obeying the sentence

I have placed them in.

 

I will punish myself further,

I will let my soul empty and become

a waste ground of the incomplete

and as pain is my watchword

I will draw a blind around my crumbling heart

and I will let the shroud fall over me;

rather than ever hurt you again.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015