Past harm images proliferate,
stitching together a depreciated self.
Bearing sores of psyche flagellate,
flayed representation of mental health,
in the darkness they scream and yell.
The hell spawn harpies who often sing,
that I am the sum of all these things.
Deep within, evading the mask
which sparkles with false wit and charm
Lies that blackened child that ever lasts.
Basking in a rictus rite of self harm
an acidic tsunami, the antithesis of calm
Stirs the hell spawn harpies who often sing,
that this is me, the sum of all these things.
Depression grey with simmering black,
behind cranial doors and shut away
otherwise engulfed in the desperate act.
People watch the jester’s asinine play
who beam and smile each insipid day.
Though hell spawn harpies who often sing,
bellow and laugh at sum of all these things.
The feathered beasts know me well
seeing behind that silken veil,
tearing down the walls for all to tell.
Stagnation of soul beyond fetid stale
A failure, failed and set to further fail.
The hell spawn harpies are correct to sing,
that I am wholly, the sum of all these things.