Though It Strikes Me As Being Self Inflicted

It's true. Every word. Nobody ever 'asks' for it.

Though it strikes me as self inflicted – your memory haunts my dreams.

Though my heart tells me I am innocent – my head stresses other extremes.

As far as I and the law are concerned, saying No just Once is enough.

Doctors and drugs numb the pain – but the ‘self healing’ process is tough.

 

 

 

 

You cheated or lied – God knows what else behind your steely, closed door.

 

 

The evidence though is in lock up – all over my bedroom floor.

The sheets they were washed straight away – I bathed my bones and skin.

But alas in my head, and my soul too (I dread) I am still covered in sin.

 

 

 

 

You can move on and take with you too – the moments we shared in twilight;

 

 

But my honour and pride you won’t hide away, not giving those up without fight.

Should have known better for trusting again after so long of displaying disinterest in men,

Fat man with fat head in grubby train carriage – I dreamt of Marx whilst you dreamt of marriage.

 

 

 

 

Tearing my ribcage and skull bone apart just to make peace with my aching heart;

 

 

Maybe with pain running through every vein, I’ll learn to hate all of mankind again.

You’re sad, you’re pathetic a lower form of life, should have known from day one you only meant strife.

Look out little boy, I’m fuelled with hell bent rage, only for so long can I vent my anger in poetry, on page.

 

 

 

 

Consider this fair warning – A threat in advance, run piggy run, let’s see the fat man dance.

 

 

 

Author's Note

Ignore grammar. Content requires critical analysis.