Can I blame mental illness for how I’ve behaved?
I would like to, but that would mean that I’m now sane.
In my old age, alone now, consumed in remorse,
I’m possessed by a grossly malevolent force.
My whole life was a mission to cause others pain
From this brutal life review I cannot be saved.

It’s injustice to worthiness. I don’t deserve
Satisfaction in living. In purgatory,
I remember my madness and all I have done
To create such calamity for everyone
I can think of. The reason that people hate me
Is because I’m an asshole with colossal nerve.

That’s why I flush the toilet every now and then
By moving to another place, leaving behind
A train wreck of existence to fuck up anew
Somewhere else. I’m amazed by the things that I do
That are downright disgusting. I had been unkind
For no apparent reason again and again.

Can I feel the embarrassment? Have I a soul?
As my lead solar plexus drains my energy,
I don’t want to remember the people I’ve known.
Knowing they have forgotten me, I can disown
That it ever had happened. In hell I should be.
Perhaps unconsciously that’s my ultimate goal.

But I’m here now and have been assigned to this role
For some God unknown reason. I am humbled by
My existence. I’m sorry for all that I’ve done
To hurt others. To hope that healing has begun
Is, I hope, not too arrogant. The day I die
Will be one of rejoicing for this troubled soul.