What Remains Of Me
A point I try to prove yet makes no sense,
A stable human’s just what I am not.
With me, no point to speak of future tense
For never will I reclaim what I’ve lost.
The engine never stopped still bears the debt
Of years and years of caustic traits run wild.
I failed to steer clear of the brands I've met —
I did! I did! Though I was but a child!
Where fire cleans it also eats me whole,
A forest burning down to show me truth.
It’s not quite right to call this part a soul,
This past of me in which I will not sleuth.
It’s demonstrated, thus now you can see
There’s nothing good that still remains of me.
writing
,
poetry