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Epitaph of a Broken Ego.

Confidence always felt like a death wish,
just an ego asking for it, tempting the cosmos
to put me in my place.

Damage done, I refuse
to take seconds.
Passionate determination
of the hypersensitive.
I wave my middle finger
like a white flag,
just disempowering myself.

See me play dead.

No use climbing, watched it, lived it:
we all fall down, so
I’ll live life safe and secure,
close to the ground, down
on my belly, breathing the dirt,
blind to the sky,

safe from the violent end
of inevitable descent.

Submission to gravity
feeding weakness, a hungry halo
of spinning crows patiently awaiting
this drawn out end
fueled by fear, hurt and rage.

Terrified of failure, I issued a restraining
order on hope, seeking to just blend in,
conceal this contempt,

holding tongue, stretching the silence,
try and hide behind the scenes,
feeling lost to the crowd,
though within, it persists.

I cannot sleep anymore
but must I get out of bed?
I need to turn off the alarm
echoing inside my head.

Impulse drives me from the games,
I suddenly find me
screaming on the sidelines again
bleeding as I cut myself with my sharp,
double-edged tongue,
like ink and pen, scribble on this wall
with the last of my will,
write my own epitaph,

no death throes, just echoes
of relentless torture
until I find it within myself
to cease this self-flagellation,
find a way to make a change.

Spine, balls:
cast away, castrated
by a broken ego.


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