I was a lost child in denial, a wicked reptile, kin to crocodiles.
Problems stockpiled while demons dogpiled
any consideration, wisdom, and contemplation with hatred, fear, and hesitation.
I couldn't face the faces that would meet me.
I protected myself by transforming my rib cage into serrated armored blades.
My edges cracked down to dated perspectives.
I tolerated voices of trauma, making selections in my stead.
Death crept close to me with a fetid tongue waiting to taste my flesh.
As temptations pulled me to a naked woman's bed, I edged closer to it.
The misery of villainy when women I slept with blamed me for my emotional unavailability.
Sex transformed to sloth; I slipped from a mire to a bog.
Hatred became a drug. I got high off self-disgust and revulsion to things I thought were repulsive.
As my flesh fed off my spirit in sin, I fed off my sins.
My body was a monster- a golem to transport the container of my soul.
Demons filled the container and yanked my hands when I reached for sanity.
I moved with all my supposed strength, trapped in a self-imposed restraint.
The shackles of bore weight in a straight jacket camouflaged as a sweater vest over me in the snow of apathy.
I slipped on thin ice, hoping for an escape while wishing for an end to my misery.
Fear consumed my confidence in my complacency to admit my faults where trauma chagrined in dominance.
My emotions smelted in a forge created in frost by a freezer-burned wand.
Would I be buried in this frozen wasteland, this tundra of nonchalance preceded by pride?
Self-preservation offered a vacation to which I came and stayed without a returning destination.
Logic took a turn by grabbing pills from a doctor of mind to burn away the ice in my bones.
When the pills entered my bloodstream, logic refined the water I drank from a faucet by the forge.
Sentinel, I transformed into an automated and segregated being that deviated far from sentimental.
Calculated in careful analysis and only reckless when the benefits outweighed the risk.
Yet a stench from the faucet bled from my sweaty pores.
I became fetid, reeking of deception, lost love, a soul without belonging.
I reeked of the bottom of a boot, stained by grasslands and marred by hail in a crystal desert.
I reeked of indecision, risk aversion, clouded judgment, and reckless self-hatred.
Worst, I reeked of self-praise in the pride of my twisted ways, formed in self-deceit, a product of my environment; I reeked of an envious desire just to be "me."
About the Creator
My imagination, our journey, and this world we call Earth. What shall we make of the time we have left here? Well, with my time I will give you many stories. Read with caution welcome Pen's page; good reading.