Many kindhearted people, some angels by now,
And with uncommon patience, have made who I am.
What is wrong about me is my own tangled mess
Aggravated by madness. I am, more or less,
Created in the image of those who I damn
With my inverse reflection, full well knowing how.
Beating up on myself I’ve made into an art –
Just as those who cared for me and those who I played
An unworthy role model… ruthless and profane.
I took every advantage and caused awful pain.
With my bed made, I’m sleepless and cannot evade
The grotesque beast that I’ve been with sickness of heart.
Planted deep in my conscious soil germinates seed
From the heart of the righteous. Love once within reach
Now is longing disabled. Survival logic
Is a piss poor facsimile and a cheap trick.
This I’m fully aware of. Lessons others teach.
Acting out as the student, I had failed to lead.
Not at all melancholy, pleasure now I take
In the clearness of knowing what my makers knew
Since before I had met them. The thoughts I embrace
Generated by feelings of knowing their grace
Satisfy but the least that my writing can do
To give some indication that I’ve come awake.