His line of thought runs parallel to the definition of insanity,
Warped beyond recognition to those in his vicinity,
A reality only he can experience within his orbit,
Wearing his unrealistic ideology of his masculinity.
***
He pushes at those that respond in any way,
Tugging at their frustrations in sheer arrogance,
Pulling at the frayed edges, riling even the most placid,
Bullying, tearing away at life’s very elegance.
***
Self sabotage the order of the day,
Surprisingly unexpected to those in the firing line,
A sense of shock, surreal in its ability to crush,
All in the guise of pretending he is fine.
***
Honesty is the missing ingredient,
Introspection necessary but he refuses the deed,
Believing he is justified when dishing out the pain,
Why? Because he’s tearing out his own heart, watching it bleed.
***
Hours spent living within his head,
Worrying the thoughts until he almost explodes,
Pinning him to the warpath looking for his next victim,
Foolishly, he doesn’t realise he’s at sanity’s crossroads.
***
Speak in haste and regret will slam him down later,
Immaturity at the bend of his junction,
The self justification is totally unbelievable,
Although to him it makes sense, it’s how he is to function.
***
Random hostility is a shock to face,
Learning that trusting him is a near impossibility,
Walking on eggshells, constantly trembling in anticipation,
Makes any lasting relationship an agonising infeasibility.
***
He stands tall and proud in his alternate reality,
Blind to the trauma he leaves in his wake,
Victims torn, bloody and ragged,
Wrapped in the agony of his tormenting heartbreak.
Please click the link below my name to read more of my work. I would also like to thank you for taking the time to read this today and for all your support.
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Please visit my website if you'd like more information on my newly published book, Battle Angel : The Ultimate She Warrior.
Originally published on Medium
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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